That Boy Next Door
by gleeeeeful
Summary: That Boy Next Door is heavily borrowed from the novel, "The Boy Next Door." In this story told in emails Kurt Hummel, gossip columnist for a New York newspaper, happens upon his neighbor who has been beaten & left for dead. When Kurt tries to get in touch with the neighbor's next-of-kin for help, a stranger comes into Kurt's life and turns things upside down.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This story, as mentioned above, is heavily borrowed from Meg Cabot's "The Boy Next Door." A few things to be aware of: **

**Pairings: Kurt/OC (in the past), Mercedes/Sam, and, of course, Klaine. This story also features a host of other OCs and a less-than-gentlemanly Wes. Please note that this is non-canon!**

**I hope you all enjoy!**

**And for people who are wondering about eRomance, I'm working on it... slowly. :)**

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Human Resources

Subject: Tardiness

Dear Kurt Hummel,

This is an automated message from the Human Resources Division of the New York Journal, New York City's leading photo-newspaper. Please be aware that according to your supervisor, managing editor William Schuester, your workday here at the Journal begins promptly at 9AM, making you 68 minutes tardy today. This is your 37th tardy exceeding twenty minutes so far this year, Kurt Hummel.

We in the Human Resources Division are not "out to get tardy employees," as was mentioned in last week's unfairly worded employee newsletter. Tardiness is a serious and expensive issue facing employers all over America. Employees often make light of tardiness, but routine lateness can often be a symptom of a more serious issue, such as

·alcoholism

·drug addiction

·gambling addiction

·abusive domestic partner

·sleep disorders

·clinical depression

and any number of other conditions.

If you are suffering from any of the above, please do not hesitate to contact your Human Resources Representative, Harmony Fuller. Your Human Resources Representative will be only too happy to enroll you in the New York Journal's Staff Assistance Program, where you will be paired with a mental health professional who will work to help you achieve your full potential.

Kurt Hummel, we here at the New York Journal are a team. We win as a team, and lose as one, as well. Kurt, don't you want to be on a winning team? So please do your part to see that you arrive at work on time from now on!

Sincerely,

The Human Resources Division

The New York Journal

Please note that any future tardies may result in suspension or dismissal.

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Mercedes Jones

Subject: You are in trouble

Kurt, where were you? I saw that Harmony Fuller from Human Resources skulking around your cubicle. I think you're in for another one of those tardy notices. What is this, your 50th? You better have a good excuse this time, because Will was saying a little while ago that gossip columnists are a dime a dozen, and that he could get Liz Smith over here in a second to replace you if he wanted to. I think he was joking. It was hard to tell because the Coke machine is broken, and he hadn't had his morning Mountain Dew yet.

By the way, did something happen last night between you and Aaron? He's been playing Wagner in his cubicle again. You know how this bugs Will. Did you two have another fight? Are we doing lunch later or what?

Merdeces :-)

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Aaron

Subject: Last night

Where are you, Kurt? Are you going to be completely childish about this and not come into the office until you're sure I've left for the day? Is that it? Can't we sit down and discuss this like adults?

Aaron Spender

Senior Correspondent

New York Journal

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Dolly Vargas

Subject: Aaron Spender

Kurt-

Don't get the wrong idea, darling, I WASN'T spying on you, but a girl would have to be BLIND not to have noticed how you brained Aaron Spender with your bag last night at Pastis. You probably didn't even notice me, I was at the bar, and I looked around because I thought I heard your name, of all things-weren't you supposed to be covering the Prada show?-and then BOOM! Altoids and hand sanitizing wipes all over the place.

Darling, it was precious. You really have excellent aim, you know. But I highly doubt Jack Spade meant that fine wallet to be used as a projectile. I'm sure it would have been comprised with less supple leather if it had been intended to be thrown around like a shot-put.

Seriously, darling, I just need to know: Is it all over between you and Aaron? Because I never thought you were right for each other. I mean, the man was in the running for a Pulitzer, for God's sake! Although if you ask me, anyone could have written that story about that little Ethiopian boy. I found it perfectly maudlin. That part about his sister selling her body to provide him with rice...please. Too Dickensian.

So you aren't going to be difficult about this, are you? Because I've got an invite to Steven's place in the Hamptons, and I was thinking of inviting Aaron to mix Cosmos for me. But I won't if you're going to go Joan Collins on me.

P.S. You really should have called if you weren't going to come in today, darling. I think you're in trouble. I saw that little troll-like person (Harmony something?) from Human Resources sniffing around your desk earlier.

Dolly XXXOOO

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Will Schuester

Subject: Where the hell were you?

Where the hell are you? You appear to be under the mistaken impression that comp days don't have to be pre-arranged with your employer. This is not exactly convincing me that you are columnist material. More like copy-edit material, Hummel.

WS

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Aaron

Subject: Last night

This is really beneath you, Kurt. I mean, for God's sake, Adam and I were in a war zone together. Anti-aircraft fire was exploding all around us. We thought we'd be captured by rebel forces at any moment. Can't you understand that? It meant nothing to me,

Kurt, I swear it. My God, I should never have told you. I thought you could be mature about this. But to pull a disappearing act like this...

Well, I'd never have expected it from a guy like you, that's all I have to say.

Aaron Spender

Senior Correspondent

New York Journal

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Mercedes Jones

Subject: This isn't funny

Boy, where are you? I'm really starting to get worried. Why haven't you called me, at the very least? I hope you didn't get hit by a bus, or something. But I suppose if you did, they'd call us. Assuming you had your press pass with you, that is.

All right, I'm not really worried that you're dead. I'm really worried you're going to get fired, and I'm going to have to eat lunch with Dolly again. I was forced to go to Burger Heaven with her since you're MIA, and it nearly killed me. The woman had a salad with no dressing. Do you get where I'm coming from here? NO DRESSING.

And then she felt compelled to comment on every single thing I put in my mouth. Do you know how many grams of fat are in that fry? A good substitute for mayonnaise, you know, Mercedes, is low-fat yogurt. I'd like to tell her what she can do with her low-fat yogurt. By the way, I think you should know that Spender's going around saying you're doing this because of whatever went down between the two of you the other night.

If that doesn't get you in here, and pronto, I don't know what will.

Mercedes :-)

* * *

To: Will Schuester

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: Where the hell I was

Since it is apparently so important to you and Harmony Fuller that your employees account fully for every moment they spend away from the office, I will provide you with a detailed summary of my whereabouts while I was unavoidably detained.

Ready? Got your giant cup of coffee? I hear the machine down in the art department is fully operational.

Kurt's Morning:

7:15-Alarm rings. Hit snooze button.

7:20-Alarm rings. Hit snooze button.

7:25-Alarm rings. Hit snooze button.

7:26-Wake to sound of neighbor's dog barking. Turn off alarm.

7:27-Stagger to bathroom. Perform morning ablutions.

7:55-Stagger to kitchen. Ingest nourishment in form of Nutrigrain bar and Tuesday night's take-out kung pao.

7:56-Neighbor's dog still barking.

7:57-Blow dry hair.

8:10-Check New York One for weather.

8:11-Neighbor's dog still barking.

8:12-Attempt to find something to wear from assorted clothes crammed into studio apartment's single, refrigerator-sized closet. Clearly this does not give enough breathing room for my clothes.

8:30-Give up. Pull on black rayon pants, black rayon shirt, black loafers.

8:35-Shoulder signature messenger bag. Look for keys.

8:40-Find keys in bag. Leave apartment.

8:41-Notice that Mrs. Montgomery's copy of the New York Chronicle (yes, Will, my next door neighbor subscribes to our biggest rival: don't you agree with me now that we really ought to do something to draw more senior readers?) is still lying on the floor in front of her apartment door. She is normally up at six to walk her dog, and takes her paper in then.

8:42-Notice that Mrs. Montgomery's dog is still barking. Knock on door to make sure everything is all right (some of us New Yorkers actually care about our neighbors, Will. You wouldn't know that, of course, since stories about people who actually care for others in their community don't make for very good copy. Stories in the Journal, I've noticed, tend to gravitate towards neighbors who shoot at, not borrow cups of sugar from, one another).

8:45-After repeated knocks, Mrs. Montgomery still does not come to door. Paco, her Great Dane, however, barks with renewed vigor.

8:46- Try handle to Mrs. Montgomery's apartment door. It is, oddly enough, unlocked. Let myself inside.

8:47-Am greeted by Great Dane and two Siamese cats. No sign of Mrs. Montgomery.

8:48-Find Mrs. Montgomery facedown on living room carpet.

Okay, Will? Get it, Will? The woman was FACEDOWN on her living room carpet!

What was I supposed to do, Schuester? Huh? Call Harmony Fuller down in Human Resources?

No. That life-saving class you made us all take paid off, see? I was able to tell that not only did Mrs. Montgomery have a pulse, she was also breathing. So I called 911 and waited with her until the ambulance came. With the ambulance, Will, came some cops.

And guess what the cops said, Will? They said it looked to them as if Mrs. Montgomery had been struck. From behind, Will. Some creep whacked that old lady on the back of the head!

Can you believe it? Who would do that to an eighty-year-old woman? I don't know what this city is coming to, Will, when little old ladies aren't even safe in their apartments. But I'm telling you, there's a story here-and I think I should be the one who writes it.

Whadduya say, Schuester?

Kurt

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Will Schuester

Subject: There's a story here

The only story here is the one I haven't heard. And that would be the story of why, just because your neighbor got whacked on the head, you couldn't come into the office, or even call anyone to let them know where they were.

Now that is a story I'd really enjoy hearing.

WS

* * *

To: Will Schuester

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: Where I was

Will, you are so cold-hearted. I found my neighbor facedown in her living room, the victim of a brutal attack, and you think all I should have been concerned about was calling my employer to explain why I was going to be late?

Well, I'm sorry, Will, but the thought never even crossed my mind. I mean, Mrs. Montgomery is my friend! I wanted to go with her in the ambulance, but there was the little problem of Paco. Or should I say the big problem of Paco. Paco is Mrs. Montgomery's Great Dane, Will. He weighs a hundred and twenty-nine pounds, Will, which is only slightly less than what I weigh.

And he needed to go out. Badly. So after I took him out, I fed him and watered him and did the same to Tweedle-Dum and Mr. Peepers, her Siamese cats (Tweedle-Dee sadly expired last year).

While I was doing this, the cops were checking her door for signs of forced entry. But there were none, Will.

Do you know what this means? It means she probably knew her attacker, Will. She probably let him in of her own volition! Even more bizarrely, there were two hundred and seventy-six dollars in cash in her purse that had been left untouched. Ditto her jewelry,

Will. This was no robbery. Will, why don't you believe there's a story here? Something is wrong. Very wrong. When I finally did get to the hospital, I was informed that Mrs. Montgomery was in surgery. Doctors were frantically trying to relieve the pressure on her brain from a giant blood clot that had formed beneath her skull! What was I supposed to do, Will? Leave? The cops couldn't get in touch with anybody from her family. I'm all she has, Will.

Twelve hours. Twelve hours it took them. I had to go to her apartment to walk Paco twice before the surgery was even finished. And when it was, the doctors came out and told me it had only been partially successful. Mrs. Montgomery is in a coma, Will! She may never come out of it. And until she does, guess who's stuck taking care of Paco,

Tweedle-Dum, and? Go on. Guess, Will. I'm not trying to get sympathy here. I know. I should have called. But work was not necessarily foremost in my mind at the time, Will.

But listen, now that I'm finally here what would you think about letting me write up a little something about what happened? You know, we could hit it from the Be Careful Who You Let in to Your Apartment angle. The cops are still looking for Mrs. Montgomery's closest relative-her nephew, I think-but when they find him, I could interview him. You know the woman really was a wonder. At eighty, she still goes to the gym three times a week, and last month, she flew to Helsinki for a performance of The Rings. Seriously. Her husband was Henry Montgomery, of the Montgomery twistie fortune.

You know, those twist-ties that go on garbage bags? She's worth six or seven million at least. Come on, Will. Let me give it a try. You can't keep me doing gossip for Page Ten forever.

Kurt

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Will Schuester

Subject: You can't keep me doing gossip for Page Ten forever

Yes, I can.

And do you know why? Because I am the managing editor of this newspaper, and I can do whatever I want. Besides, Hummel, we need you on Page Ten.

Would you like to know why we need you on Page Ten? Because the fact is, Hummel, you care. You care about Eva Longoria's dating status. You care that Harrison Ford's had a chemical peel. You care about Kim Kardashian's breasts, and whether or not they are silicone, and did they or did they not explode last month when she was on tour with Kanye.

Admit it, Hummel. You care.

The other thing ain't a story, Hummel. Old ladies get bonked on the head for their Social Security checks every day. It's called a telephone. Next time, call.

Capice? Capice. Now get me the copy on the Prada opening.

WS

* * *

To: Will Schuester

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: I do not care about Kim Kardashian's breasts...

...and you'll be sorry for not letting me run with the Montgomery story, Will. I'm telling you, there's something there. I can smell it.

And by the way, Harrison would NEVER get a chemical peel. Han Solo knows better.

Kurt

PS And who doesn't care about Eva Longoria's love life? Look how cute she is. Don't you want her to be happy, Will?

PPS And they didn't explode, they leaked. Because of the altitude, Will. God, don't you even READ my column?

* * *

To: Human Resources

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: My Tardiness

Dear Human Resources,

What can I say? You caught me. I guess my

·alcoholism

·drug addiction

·gambling addiction

·abusive domestic partner

·sleep disorders

·clinical depression

and any number of other conditions have finally caused me to hit bottom. Please enroll me in the Staff Assistance Program right away! If you could hook me up with a shrink who looks like Tom Daley, and preferably conducts his therapy session with his shirt off, I'd appreciate it.

Because the primary condition from which I am suffering is that I'm a twenty-seven-year-old man living in New York City, and I cannot find a decent guy. Just one guy, who won't cheat on me, doesn't live with his mother, and isn't turning to the Arts section of the Chronicle first thing Sunday morning, if you know what I mean. Is that asking so much? See if your Staff Assistance Program can handle that.

Kurt Hummel

Page Ten Columnist

NY Journal

* * *

To: Aaron

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: Can't we discuss this like adults?

There's nothing to discuss. Really, Aaron, I'm sorry for throwing my bag at you. It was a childish outburst that I deeply regret.

And I don't want you to think that the reason we're breaking up has anything to do with Adam. Really, Aaron, we were over a long time before you ever told me about Adam.

Let's face it, Aaron, we're just too different: You like Stephen Hawking. I like Stephen King. You know it would never have worked.

Kurt

* * *

To: Dolly Vargas

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: Aaron Spender

I did not throw my wallet. It slipped out of my hand when I was reaching for my drink, and accidentally flew through the air and hit Aaron in the eye.

And if you want him, Dolly, you can have him, though you really aren't his type.

Kurt

* * *

To: Mercedes Jones

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: Where I was

Okay, okay, I should have called. The whole thing was just a nightmare. But that's not what's important. This, you're never going to believe: Aaron cheated on me in Chechnya.

That's right. And you'll never guess who with. Seriously. Try to guess. You never will.

All right, I'll tell you: Adam Crawford.

Uh-huh. You read that correctly: Adam Crawford, respected senior BBC news correspondent, most recently host of the television news magazine TwentyFourSeven, and voted one of People Magazine's 50 Most Beautiful people last month.

Can you believe he slept with AARON? I mean, he could have George Clooney, for God's sake. What would he want with AARON?

Not that I didn't suspect. I always thought those stories he kept emailing in during that month he was on assignment there were way too smug. You know how I found out? Do you? He TOLD me. He felt he was ready to reach the next level of intimacy with me (three guesses as to what level THAT is) and that in order to do so, he felt he had to make a clean breast of it. He says ever since it happened, he's been wracked with guilt and that none of it meant anything. God, what a putz. I can't believe I wasted three months of my life on him.

Are there no decent men out there? I mean, besides Sam. I swear, Mercedes, your boyfriend is the last good man on earth. The last one! You hang on to him, and don't let go, because I'm telling you, it's a jungle out there.

Kurt

PS Can't go to lunch today, I have to go home and walk my neighbor's dog.

PPS Don't ask: It's a long story.

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Mercedes Jones

Subject: That Jerk

Look, the guy did you a favor. I mean, be honest, Hummel. Did you really picture a future for the two of you? I mean, he smokes a PIPE, for crying out loud. And what's with all that classical music? Who does he think he is, anyway? Harold Bloom?

No. He's a reporter, just like the rest of us. He's not out there writing fine literature. So what's with that bust of William Shakespeare he keeps on top of his monitor?

The man is a big phony, and you know it, Kurt. That's why, in spite of the fact you two went out for three months, you never slept with him. Remember?

Mercedes ;-)

* * *

To: Mercedes Jones

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: That Jerk

I never slept with him because of that goatee. And his awful fashion sense. How was I supposed to sleep with someone who looks like Robin Hood and thinks that leather /denim jackets are still a thing? He didn't want me enough even to shave.

What's wrong with me, Mercedes? Am I really not worth shaving for?

Kurt

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Mercedes Jones

Subject: That Jerk

Give up the pity quest, Kurt. You know you're hot. The man is obviously suffering from a psychiatric disorder. We should sic Harmony Fuller on him. Where are we going for lunch today? And do NOT say Burger Heaven. If I don't get down to a size 12 in two months, the wedding's off. Every girl in my family has worn my mother's dress to her wedding.

I am not going to be the first Jones to schlep out to Klinefeld's.

Mercedes :-)

* * *

To: Mercedes Jones

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: Lunch

Mercedes, you know I can't go to lunch. I have to go home and walk Mrs. Montgomery's dog.

Did you hear the latest? Chris Evans and that new girl who's on that CW show. I'm not kidding. They were seen kissing in front of Crunch Fitness Center on Lafayette Street. How could she be so blind? Can't she see he isn't any good for her?

I mean, I know that he is Captain America but he was such a womanizer in The Fantastic Four. You can't forget a man's past!

Kurt

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Mercedes Jones

Subject: Reality check

Kurt,

I hate to break this to you, but Captain America (and The Fantastic Four) is a fictional movie/comic book. You might have heard already that there are these things called TV shows and movies? Yeah, they are fictional. What happens on them in no way reflects on real life. For instance, in real life, I'm sure that Chris Evans is perfectly happy and not at all like the womanizer he appeared to be in The Fantastic Four. And let's be serious, you're still just mad that he's not batting for your team. But what's really frustrating here is that you have to walk that dog, even if he is friendly and belongs to your lovely neighbor who made you those cookies that one time.

Yeah, the dog walking is beginning to suck. That's just my opinion, of course.

Mercedes

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

cc: Mercedes Jones

From: Artie Abrams

Subject: CONFIDENTIAL

All right, girls, hold on to your hats. I got the information you requested, the salary increases for next year. It wasn't easy. If you tell anybody where you got this information, I will accuse you both of having gambling addictions, and you'll be yanked into the Staff Assistance Program before either of you can whistle Dixie.

Here goes:

Name: Position: Salary:

Peter Hargrave Editor in Chief $120,000

Will Schuester Managing Editor $ 85,000

Dolly Vargas Style Editor $ 75,000

Aaron Spender Chief Correspondent $ 75,000

Mercedes Jones Food Critic $ 45,000

Kurt Hummel Page Ten Columnist $ 45,000

Harmony Fuller Human Resources Admin. $ 45,000

Read it and weep, girls.

Artie Abrams

Computer Programmer

NY Journal

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Mercedes Jones

Subject: CONFIDENTIAL

I can't believe Harmony Fuller makes as much as we do. What does SHE do? Sits around and listens to people whine all day about their dental plan. Please.

I'm surprised about Dolly. I'd have thought she made more. I mean, how does she keep herself in Hermes scarves on a mere $75,000 a year?

Mercedes ;-)

* * *

To: Mercedes Jones

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: CONFIDENTIAL

Are you kidding? Dolly comes from money. Haven't you ever heard her talk about how she used to summer in Newport? I was going to ask Aaron out for an I-forgive-you drink after work-NOT to get back together with him, just so he'll stop with the Wagner already-but now that I see how much more he makes than me, I can't even bear to look at him. I KNOW I'm a better writer than he is. So what's he getting $75,000/yr, while I'm stuck at $45, doing fashion shows and movie premieres?

Kurt

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Mercedes Jones

Subject: CONFIDENTIAL

Um, because you're good at them? Fashion shows and movie premieres, I mean.

Mercedes ;-)

PS I have to do that new Peking duck place on Mott. Come with me. We'll grab lunch.

* * *

To: Mercedes Jones

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: Lunch

I can't. You know I can't. I've got to walk Paco.

KH

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Mercedes Jones

Subject: Lunch and That Dog

Okay, how long is this going to go on? You and that dog, I mean? I can't be going out to eat by myself every day. Who's going to keep me from ordering the double patty cheddar melt? I am serious. This dog thing is not working for me.

Mercedes

* * *

To: Mercedes Jones

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: Lunch and the Dog

What am I supposed to do, Mercedes? Let the poor thing sit in the apartment all day until he bursts? I know you aren't a dog person, but have some compassion. It's only until Mrs. Montgomery gets better.

KH

PS This just in: Paris Hilton and that guy from the rock band? On again. I swear it. His publicist just called. Apparently, she's dumped the surfer dude.

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Mercedes Jones

Subject: It's only until Mrs. Montgomery gets better

And when is THAT going to be? Earth to Kurt. Come in, Kurt. The woman is in a COMA. Okay? She is COMATOSE. I think some alternative arrangements for the woman's pets need to be made. You are a DOORMAT. A COMATOSE woman is using you as a DOORMAT. The woman has to have some relatives, Kurt. FIND THEM.

Besides, people shouldn't keep Great Danes in the city. It's cruel.

Mercedes:-(

PS You are the only person I know who still cares about Paris Hilton anymore. Give it up, boy.

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Burt and Carole Hummel Hummels

Subject: Quinn Fabray

Kurt, honey, it's Carole. Look, your father and I got the Email! Isn't it great? Now I can write to you, and maybe you'll answer for a change! Just kidding, sweetheart.

Anyway, Daddy and I thought you'd want to know that little Quinn Fabray-you

remember Quinn, don't you? Dr. Fabray's little girl? He was your dentist. And wasn't Debbie Homecoming Queen your sophomore year in high school?-Anyway, Quinn's just got married! Yes! The announcement was in the paper.

And do you know what, Kurt? The Duane County Register is on the line now. What? Oh, your father says it's ONLINE, not on the line. Well, whatever. I get so confused.

Anyway, Quinn's announcement is ONLINE, so I am sending it to you, as what they call an attachment. I hope you enjoy it, dear. She's marrying a doctor from Westchester! Well, we always knew she'd do well for herself. All that lovely blonde hair. And look, she graduated suma cum laude from Yale! Then she went to law school. So impressive.

Not that there's anything wrong with being a reporter. Reporters are just as important as lawyers! And Lord knows, we all need to read some nice gossip now and then. Why, did you hear about Ted Turner and Martha Stewart? You could have knocked me over with a feather.

Well, enjoy! And you make sure you lock your door at night. Burt and I worry about

you, living there in that big city all alone.

Bye for now-

Carole

Attachment:

(Glam photo of wedding couple)

Lucy Quinn Fabray, the daughter of Dr. and Mrs. Reed Andrew Fabray of Lima, Ohio, was married last week to Michael Bourke, the son of Dr. and Mrs. Reginald Bourke of

Chapaqua, NY. The Rev. James Smith performed the ceremony at the Roman Catholic Church of Saint Anthony in Lansing.

Ms. Fabray, 26, is an associate at Schuler, Higgins, and Brandt, the international law firm based in New York. She received a bachelor's degree from Yale, from which she graduated suma cum laude, and a law degree from Harvard. Her father is a dentist and oral surgeon in Lima, operating the Fabray Dental Practice.

Mr. Bourke, 31, received a bachelor's degree from Yale and an MBA from Columbia University. He is an associate at the investment banking group of Lehman Brothers. His father, now retired, was the president of Bourke & Associates, a private investment firm.

After a honeymoon trip to Thailand, the couple will reside in Chapaqua.

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Dolly Vargas

Subject: Mothers

Darling, when I heard all that anguished shrieking from your cubicle just now I thought at the very least Tom Cruise had finally come out of the closet. But Mercedes tells me it's just because you received an email from your mother. Or, rather, stepmother.

How well I understand. And I am so glad my mother is far too drunk ever to learn to operate a keyboard. I highly suggest you send your doting parents a case of Campari and have done with it. Trust me, it's the only way to shut them up on the dreaded subject of M. As in, Why aren't you M yet? All your friends are M. You aren't even trying to get M. Don't you want me to see my grandchildren before I die?

As if I would EVER give birth. I suppose a well-mannered little six year old would be all right, but they simply don't COME that way. You have to TRAIN them.

Too tiresome. I can understand your anguish.

Dolly XXXOOO

PS Did you notice Aaron shaved? It's a pity. I never realized what a weak chin he has.

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Harmony Fuller

Subject: Staff Assistance Program

Dear Mr. Hummel,

You might think it amusing to make light of the Human Resources Department's Staff Assistance Program, but I can assure you that we have helped many of your co-workers through dark and difficult times. Through counseling and therapy, they have all gone on to lead meaningful, profitable lives. I find it disheartening that you would belittle a program that has done so much for so many.

Please note that a copy of your latest email has been placed in your personnel file, and will be available to your supervisor during your next performance review.

Harmony Fuller

Human Resources Administrator

The New York Journal

* * *

To: Harmony Fuller

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: Staff Assistance Program

Dear Ms. Fuller,

What I find disheartening is the fact that I reached out to you and all the other Human Resource administrators, and instead of being given the aid I so desperately need, I was brutally rebuffed. Are you saying that my chronic status as a single gay man is not worthy of assistance? Do I have to tell you how demoralizing it is to buy Lean Cuisines Fiesta Meals For One every night at the Food Emporium? What about having to order my pizza by the slice? Do you think that isn't whittling away at my self-esteem, slice by disheartening slice? And what about salad? Do you have any idea how many pounds of lettuce I have ingested in an effort to maintain my physique, so that I might entice a man worthy of my caliber?

Even though it goes against every fiber of my being to cater to the misogynistic more that exists in western culture that insists that attractiveness is parallel to one's waist-size? If you are trying to say that being a single woman in New York City is not a disability, then I respectfully submit that you visit a Manhattan deli on a Saturday night. Who do you see crowded around the salad bar? That's right. The singletons.

Face reality, Harmony. It's a jungle out there. It's kill or be killed. I am merely suggesting that you, as a mental health expert, accept that truth, and move on.

Kurt Hummel

Page Ten Columnist

The New York Journal

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Will Schuester

Subject: Cut it out

Stop teasing Harmony Fuller down in Human Resources. You know she doesn't have any sense of humor. If you have so much free time, come to me. I'll give you plenty to do.

The obit guy just quit.

WS

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Aaron

Subject: Forgive Me

I don't know where to begin. First of all, I can't stand this. You ask what this is. I'll tell you: this is sitting here all day, seeing you there in your cubicle, knowing that you said never want to speak to me again.

This is watching you walk towards me, thinking you might have changed your mind, only to have you pass by without so much as even glancing in my direction.

This is knowing that you'll walk out of here at the end of the day, that I will have no idea where you will be, what you will do, and that an abyss of time will elapse before you walk back in here the next day.

This-or should I say, these?-are the countless, uncountable hours during which my mind leaves me, and pursues you out the door, following you in an imaginative journey that leads nowhere, right back where I started, sitting here thinking about this.

Aaron Spender

Senior Correspondent

The New York Journal

* * *

To: Aaron

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: This

That was really moving, Aaron. Have you ever considered writing fiction for a living?

Seriously. I think you've got real talent.

KH

* * *

To: Mercedes Jones

From: Sam Evans

Subject: We Got Email

Cedes! Look! We got email! Isn't it righteous? You can write to me at this foodie email address. Get it? I'm foodie because I'm the chef! Anyway, just thought I'd say hi. Now we can email each other all day long!

What are you wearing? How come you never wear that bustier I got you to work? Do you want to know tonight's specials?

·Asparagus tips wrapped in salmon

·Soft Shell Crab

·Lobster bisque

·Pasta putanesca

·Red Snapper in an orchietta sauce

·Filet Mignon

·Creme brulle

I'll save you some bisque.

Hey, by the way, my uncle George's throwing us an engagement party next weekend. Nothing fancy, just out by the pool at his house in Long Island. So keep Saturday free!

Love you,

Sam

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Mercedes Jones

Subject: Another one

Look, Sam's uncle Geo is throwing us an engagement party (yes, another one) and I'm telling you right now, YOU HAVE GOT TO COME. Seriously, Kurt, I don't think I can handle another round of Evanses without you. You know what they're like.

And this one has a pool. You know they're going to throw me in. You just know it. Say you'll come and keep me from being humiliated. PLEASE.

Mercedes :-O

PS And don't you be giving me that damned DOG excuse again.

* * *

To: Mercedes Jones

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: I can't

You know I can't go. How am I supposed to go all the way out to Long Island when I have Paco to think of? You know he has to go out every four to five hours. I am wearing out my shoes as it is running back and forth between the office and my apartment building, trying to get there in time to take him out. There's no way I can go all the way out to Long Island. The poor thing might explode.

KH

PS Vivica-you know, the supermodel, and Adam Levine's latest arm candy-has dumped him! Seriously! She's dumped the the world's sexiest man alive! He is said to be devastated, and she's gone into hiding. Poor things. I really thought that one was going to work out.

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Mercedes Jones

Subject: Paco

Okay, this is ridiculous. Kurt, you cannot put your life on hold just because your next door neighbor happens to be in a coma. Seriously. There must be someone in the woman's family who can look after that stupid dog. Why do YOU have to do it?

You've done enough, for God's sake. I mean, you probably saved her life. Let someone else handle Paco and his digestive schedule. I mean it. I am not getting into that pool on my own. If you don't find this woman's next of kin, I will.

Mercedes :(

PS Excuse me, I understand your concern for Eva Longoria, but the Adam Levine? And Vivica, the Victoria's Secret water-bra girl? They'll be fine. Trust me.

* * *

To: Mercedes Jones

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: Paco

It's easy for you to say let someone else handle Paco. My question would be WHO? Mrs. Montgomery's only living relative is her nephew Wes, and not even the cops have been able to find him to tell him what happened to her. I know he lives somewhere in the city, but his phone number's unlisted. Apparently, he's some up-and-coming photographer with pictures in the Whitney, or something. At least, according to his aunt.

And quite popular with the ladies...ergo, the unlisted number, I assume so the ladies husbands can't track him down. And of course, his aunt doesn't have his number written down anywhere because she undoubtedly had it memorized.

In any case, what can I do? I can't put the poor thing in a kennel. He's already freaked out enough about his owner being...well, you know. How can I leave him locked up in some cage somewhere? Seriously, Mercedes, if you saw his eyes, you wouldn't be able to do it, either. He is the sweetest thing I've ever seen, and that includes all my nieces and nephews. Well, the imaginary ones since Finn won't be having any children anytime soon. If only he were a man. I'd marry him. I swear it.

KH

* * *

To: Mercedes Jones

From: Sam Evans

Subject: What do you mean you're not going?

Mercedes, you HAVE to go. The party is for YOU. Well, you and me. You can't not go. And don't give me any of that bull about how you don't want anybody in my family to see you in a swimsuit. How many times do I have to tell you that you are the hottest girl in the world? Do you think I care what size you wear? You have it going on, girl.

Only you should wear those thongs I bought you more often.

I don't understand what difference it makes whether or not Kurt goes. Why do women always have to do things together? It doesn't make any sense.

Besides, if you feel that strongly about it, just tell them you have an ear infection and can't get in the water. Jeez. I don't get you dames. I really don't.

Sam

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

cc: Mercedes

From: Dolly Vargas

Subject: Your Little Problem

Darlings:

I couldn't help but overhear your little tete-a-tete in the Ladies just now. Obviously I'm rarely surprised to hear Kurt in there, but I was otherwise occupied, or I would have joined in (we really ought to talk to someone about how narrow those stalls are. Fortunately, Jimmy-you know, the new fax boy-is quite surprisingly flexible, or we never would have managed ;-)

First of all, Kurt, sweetheart, Wes Montgomery did not have just any old picture in the Whitney-which you would know, if you ever ventured outside of your Broadway shows long enough to take in some real culture. He had a stunning self-portrait on display there for the Biennial, in which he was sans apparel. If you ask me, the man's a photographic genius.

Though that may not be where his true talent lies, judging by that photo...if you get my drift. And I'm sure you do.

Anyway, he has, for reasons unfathomable to me, chosen to cheapen his gift by prostituting himself out for photo shoots such as, just as an example, last Winter's Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. And he just finished up the Victoria's Secret Christmas catalog, I believe. All you have to do, children, is contact those so-called publications, and I'm sure they'll know how to get a message to him. Well, ta for now.

Dolly XXXOOO

PS Oh, Kurt, about Aaron. Look, can't you throw him a bone? He's no good to me like this. And all that Wagner is giving me a migraine.

* * *

To: Mercedes Jones

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: Wes Montgomery

Listen, thanks to Dolly, I think I've finally managed to track down Wes Montgomery! At least, no one seems to have his number, but I've got an email address. Help me draft a note to him. You know I don't do well with groveling.

KH

* * *

To: Wes Montgomery

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: Your aunt

Dear Mr. Montgomery,

I hope you get this. You are probably not aware that the police have been trying to reach you for several days now. I am sorry to inform you that your aunt, Helen Montgomery, has been seriously injured. She has been the victim of an alleged assault in her apartment. She is currently listed in critical condition at Beth Israel Hospital here in New York. Unfortunately, she is in a coma, and the doctors have no way of knowing if she will ever come out of it.

Please, Mr. Montgomery, if you get this message, call me as soon as possible on my cell phone, 917-555-2123, or if you are unable to get to a phone, please feel free to email me.

We need to discuss how you think your aunt would best like her pets cared for while she is in the hospital. I know this is the last thing you need to be worried about right now, considering how grave your aunt's condition is, but I can't imagine that, being the great animal lover she is, your aunt didn't have some sort of proviso arranged for just this sort of circumstance.

I am her next door neighbor (in apartment 15B), and I have been walking Paco and taking care of your aunt's cats, but I'm afraid that my schedule does not allow for full-time petcare. Taking care of Paco is beginning to affect my job performance.

Please contact me as soon as you can.

Kurt Hummel

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Mercedes Jones

Subject: The Letter

I like it. Short but sweet. And it gets the point across.

Mercedes :)

PS I think it's good you left out the part about all your tardies. No one in the real world cares about tardies. Just at OUR &$%^ work place does anyone keep track of how late we are.

* * *

To: Mercedes Jones

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: The Letter

Yeah, but do you think he'll even get it? From what I can tell based on the people I've talked to so far, this Wes Montgomery seems to be taking the role of playboy artiste to brand new heights. In fact, I can't believe he's never hit Page Ten before!

Plus it seems like he's always on the road. The guy was in Thailand on a shoot last month, Hawaii last week, and this week, what do you know? Nobody seems to have any idea where he is. Oh, and it's no good trying his cell phone: According to SI, he lost it scuba diving in Belize. If he even gets this message, does he sound to you like the kind of guy who'll even do anything about it? I'm a little worried.

And it's okay, I guess. I mean, I'm bonding with the cats (well, Mr. Peepers won't come out from under the bed) and Paco's like my best friend now.

But I've gotten five more of those tardy warnings from Human Resources. They are seriously going to put me on probation! But what can I do? Paco NEEDS a good hour long walk in the morning. Still, if I have to ditch out of one more society function because I have to get home to walk that dog, I'm pretty sure I'm going to get fired. I completely missed the Sarah Jessica Parker thing the other night because Paco wouldn't go. I had to walk him for like an hour. Will was furious, because the Chronicle got the scoop on us.

Though what the Chronicle is doing, reporting on celeb gossip, I can't imagine. I always thought they were too highbrow for that!

KH


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Here's chapter two! Finally, we're introduced to that stranger mentioned in the description. :) I won't be posting this week due to the holidays, so consider this your Christmas present (if that's the holiday you partake in) - and otherwise, I'll talk to y'all in a week-ish!_

* * *

To: Tom Barrett concierge

From: Wes Montgomery

Subject: Message

To Whom It May Concern:

Please deliver the following message to Vivica Chandler, who is staying in the Sopradilla Cottage.

Viv-

Do not-I repeat, DO NOT-accept any messages, telephone calls, faxes, emails, etc. for me from a man named Kurt Hummel.

No, don't worry, he's not from the mob or anything. He's my aunt's next door neighbor.

Apparently, Helen took a tumble, and this Hummel guy is trying to get in touch with me about the stupid dog. But we aren't going to let him ruin our little get away together, are we?

So don't even answer the door until I get there. I'm just finishing up the Neve Campbell shoot, and then I'll be taking the red-eye out from LAX, so I ought to be there in time to watch the sunset with you, baby. Keep the champagne chilled for me.

Love ya,

Wes

* * *

To: Wes Montgomery

From: Tom Barrett concierge

Subject: Message

Dear Mr. Montgomery,

It is my pleasure to inform you that your message for Miss Chandler has been delivered.

If there is anything else we here at the Paradise Inn can do to make your stay an enjoyable one, please do not hesitate to let us know.

We look forward to your joining us tomorrow.

Sincerely,

Tom Barrett

Concierge

Paradise Inn

Key West, Florida

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Wes Montgomery

Subject: My Aunt

Dear Mr. Hummel,

I am shocked. Deeply shocked and appalled to hear what has happened to my aunt Helen. She is, as I'm sure you know, my only living relative. I cannot thank you enough for the efforts you've gone to in order to contact me and let me know about this tragedy.

Although I am currently on assignment in Africa-perhaps you've heard of the drought here in Ethiopia? I am doing a photo shoot for the Save the Children Fund-I will begin making preparations to return to New York at once. If my aunt should wake before I get there, please assure her that I am on my way.

And thank you again, Mr. Hummel. Everything they say about cold and unfeeling New Yorkers is obviously untrue in your case. God bless you.

Sincerely,

Wesley Montgomery

* * *

To: Blaine Anderson

From: Wes Montgomery photoguy

Subject: SOS

Dude. I'm in trouble. You've got to help me out.

I'm serious. You don't know what's at stake here: I have a chance for an extended vacation with Vivica. Yeah, you read that right. Vivica. The supermodel. The one who just dumped Adam Levine. The one in those ads for that new bra with the water pump. The one on the SI cover. Yeah. THAT one.

But it's not going to work out, buddy, if you don't do me a little favor. Just one little favor. That's all I'm asking. And I know I don't have to remind you about that time I saved your you-know-what in Vegas. Remember? Spring Break, our senior year? I've never seen anybody drink as many pitchers of margaritas as you did that night. I'm telling you, man, you'd be paying alimony right now if it weren't for me.

I SAVED you. And you swore to me the next day (by the pool, remember?) that if there was ever anything you could do for me, you'd do it.

Well, today's the day. I'm calling it in. The Favor.

Crap, they're making me put away my electronic devices for take-off. Write back, man. I gotta know if you can do this for me, or else I'm dead meat.

Wes

* * *

To: Cooper Anderson

From: Blaine Anderson

Subject: Wes Montgomery

I knew it was coming. I knew it was coming, and just now, it arrived: A dispatch from Wes Montgomery, demanding payback for a favor he did me our senior year in college.

My God, that was ten years ago. The man has a mind like a sieve. He can't remember his own Social Security number, but this favor I owe him, he remembers. What did I ever do to deserve this?

You remember Wes, don't you, Coop? He was my roommate senior year, the one I got my first apartment with when I moved to the city after college. That dive in Hell's Kitchen, where the guy got stabbed in the back the first night we were there-remember? It was in the papers the next day...I think that's what led to my deciding to become a crime reporter, as a matter of fact.

Remember how Mim offered to get me out of the lease so I could move in with her and live, to quote Mim, like a human being? God, after two months of living with Wes, I almost took her up on it. It's like the guy still thought we were in college-half of

Manhattan used to show up in our living room for Monday night football every week.

No hard feelings when I moved out, though. He still calls me every few months to catch up. And now this.

God only knows what Wes wants me to do for him. Rescue a raftful of refugee Cuban ballerinas, I suppose. Or house the Australian rugby team. Or loan him the $50,000 he owes to the Russian mob. I am seriously considering leaving the country, Coop. Do you think Mim would let me have the Lear for the weekend?

Blaine

* * *

To: Blaine Anderson

From: Cooper Anderson

Subject: Wes Montgomery

I hesitate to ask, of course, but as your big brother, I feel I have a right to know:

What, precisely, did Wes Montgomery do for you that left you owing him this enormous debt?

Cooper

PS Stacy says when are you coming to visit? The kids have been asking about you. Brittany's riding post, and Haley won best jumper at last week's exhibit.

PPS No go on the Lear. Julia's using it.

* * *

To: Cooper Anderson

From: Blaine Anderson

Subject: Wes Montgomery

His name was Hans. He was a dancer. He had skintight jeans that got my heart racing and was my… well, not really to that pop song level. But he was a dancer at a club and Drunk Blaine was determined to make him the first, well, second Mr. Blaine Anderson.

You wouldn't understand, of course, having never done anything even slightly disreputable in all of your thirty-five years, but try, Cooper, to put yourself in my shoes:

It was Spring Break. I was twenty-two. I was in love. I'd had way too many margaritas. Wes dragged me out of the Wedding Chapel, sent Hans home, took away my keys so I couldn't follow him, sobered me up, and put me to bed. I still think of him sometimes.

He had that gorgeous chestnut hair and the lithe frame with pale skin I like but with slightly bucked teeth. He was cute. But not worth THIS.

Blaine

PS Congratulate Haley and Brittany for me. Are you going out to the Vineyard this weekend? I could meet you all there. Depending on whatever this favor of Wes's turns out to be.

* * *

To: Blaine Anderson

From: Cooper Anderson

Subject: Wes Montgomery

Ah. It is all become clear now. I know how you are when it comes to redheads. And just what is THIS?

Cooper

PS No, we're going to the place in the Hamptons. You're welcome to join us.

* * *

To: Wes Montgomery

From: Blaine Anderson

Subject: SOS

I don't even want to ask. What is it that you want me to do for you, Wes? And please, I'm begging you, nothing illegal in New York, or any other, state.

Blaine

* * *

To: Blaine Anderson

From: Wes Montgomery

Subject: SOS

Look, it'll be a piece of cake: All I want you to do is be me. Just for a week or two. Well, okay, maybe a month. Simple, right? Here's the 411:

My aunt-you know, the filthy stinking rich one who always kind of reminded me of your grandma, Mimi, or whatever the hell her name is? The one who was so mean about our apartment? The neighborhood wasn't that bad.

Anyway, my aunt apparently suffered a senior moment and let a psychopath into her place, who conked her on the head and fled, and now she's in the vegetable crisper at Beth Israel. There is a chance-albeit a small one-according to her doctors, that she might come out of it.

So you understand that it simply won't do to have her waking up and finding out that her beloved Wesie didn't fly to her side as soon as he heard about her accident. Auntie Helen's will is arranged 80-20-80% of the twelve million my aunt is worth goes to me upon her demise, and 20% goes to various charitable organizations she sponsors. We wouldn't want there to be any sort of untimely shift in those percentiles, now would we, on account of Wesie turning out to have been playing house with a supermodel during this alarming tragedy? Of course we wouldn't. Which is where you, my friend, come in:

You're going to tell this neighbor of hers that you're me.

That's it. Just be me, so Mr. Kurt Hummel reports back to Auntie Helen-if she ever comes around, which is extremely doubtful-that yes, her beloved nephew Wesie did show up as soon as he heard about her little accident. Oh, yeah, and you might have to walk this dog a few times. Just to shut the neighbor up.

And of course, if the old biddy shows the slightest sign of rejoining the conscious, you call me. Got it? And I'll rush right back.

But since I figure the chance of an eighty-year-old woman springing back from this kind of thing is pretty much nil, I won't be expecting to hear from you.

You know I wouldn't ask you to do this if we weren't talking Vivica here. Okay? VIVICA. The girl is supposedly very well versed in yoga. YOGA, Anderson.

You do this for me, and your slate's clean, dude. Whadduya say?

Wes

* * *

To: Wes Montgomery

From: Blaine Anderson

Subject: SOS

Let me see if I've got this straight:

Your aunt was the victim of a brutal assault, and you don't even care enough to postpone your vacation? That is cold, Montgomery. Really cold.

Essentially, what you want me to do is commit fraud-a crime punishable by five to ten years in a state penitentiary-by impersonating you. Is that it?

I think I'd rather be married to the dancer.

Blaine

* * *

To: Blaine Anderson

From: Wes Montgomery

Subject: SOS

You crime reporters are all alike. Listen to me, Anderson. I'm only going to say this once:

It's not fraud if you have my permission to impersonate me.

Why do you have to make it sound so underhanded? I told you, Helen's in a coma. She's never even going to know about it. If she croaks, you tell me, I come back to arrange the funeral. If she comes out of it, you tell me, I come back to help her convalesce.

But as long as she's unconscious, she's never going to know the difference. So why postpone anything? Besides, we're talking Vivica here.

You see how easy things can be if you don't overanalyze them? You were always like this. I remember those multiple choice tests we'd get in Bio, you were always, It can't be A-that's too obvious. They must be trying to trick us, and so you'd choose D, when the answer was CLEARLY A.

As long as Auntie Helen-and her lawyers-don't know any better, why not let me enjoy my well-earned little vacation? Placate this neighbor of hers. That's all I'm asking. Just take over the dog-walking duties a few nights a week. I think it's a very small price to pay, considering that I kept you from making the worst mistake of your entire life. You think old Mimsy would still be inviting you up to those soirees on the Vineyard if you had a Vegas club dancer for a husband?

I think not. I think you owe your buddy Wesie, but good.

Wes

* * *

To: Cooper Anderson

From: Blaine Anderson

Subject: Wes Montgomery

He wants me to walk his comatose aunt's dog while he's off partying with a supermodel.

I guess it could be worse. A lot worse.

So why do I have such a bad feeling about it?

Blaine

* * *

To: Blaine Anderson

From: Cooper Anderson

Subject: Wes Montgomery

You're right. It could be worse. Are you going to do it?

Cooper

PS Stacy says to tell you she's got the perfect guy for you: Haley's dressage instructor. Twenty-nine, blonde, blue-eyed, the works. What do you say?

* * *

To: Cooper Anderson

From: Blaine Anderson

Subject: Wes Montgomery

Why not? I mean, walking an old lady's dog...How bad can that be?

Blaine

PS You know I can't stand dressage. There's something unnatural about making a horse dance.

* * *

To: Blaine Anderson

From: Cooper Anderson

Subject: Wes Montgomery

The horses don't dance in dressage, you moron. They step. And have you ever considered that you and Hans might have been perfectly suited for one another? I mean, with the kind of luck you've been having with men lately, Hans could very well have been your last chance at real happiness. Just think, if you'd followed your heart, instead of Wes Montgomery's head, you could be the one providing Mim with a grandkid next December, instead of me.

Cooper

* * *

To: Cooper Anderson

From: Blaine Anderson

Subject: Wes Montgomery

Have I mentioned lately how much I hate you?

And also, two penises don't a baby make. Did you even pass biology?

* * *

To: Wes Montgomery

From: Blaine Anderson

Subject: SOS

Okay, I'll do it.

* * *

To: Blaine Anderson

From: Wes Montgomery

Subject: Operation Paco

All right. I'll let the neighbor know to expect you (I mean, me) tonight for the big key exchange. He's got my aunt's spare. It has not apparently occurred to him to wonder why Aunt Helen never gave me a key to her place (that fire in her last apartment was not my fault. There was something wrong with the wiring).

Remember, you're supposed to be me, so try to act like you care about the old lady's hemotoma, or whatever it is. And listen, as long as you're being me, could you try to dress with a little...what's the word I'm looking for here? Oh, I know. STYLE. I know for guys like you who are born into money, the instinct is to downplay the trillions you're worth.

And that's cool with me. I mean, I can understand this whole thing you're doing, getting a real job instead of the cushy family one your big brother offered.

And I'm totally fine with it. If you want to pretend like you're only making forty five grand a year, that's just great. But while you're being me, could you PLEASE not dress like a prep student?

I am begging you: No lacrosse t-shirts. And front-pleat khakis? Yeah, those are OUT, Blaine.

And those deck shoes you always wear? Would something in a loafer style kill you?

And for the love of God, invest in a leather jacket. Please. I know it will mean touching some of those precious millions in that trust fund your grandfather left you, but really, something NOT from the Gap would be good.

That's all. That's all I ask. Just try to look good when you're imitating me. I have a reputation to uphold, you know.

Wes

PS The neighbor left a number, but I lost it. His email's attached - the NY Journal one.

* * *

To: Wes Montgomery

From: Blaine Anderson

Subject: SOS

Christ, Montgomery, he works for the NY JOURNAL?

You didn't say that. You didn't say anything about your aunt's neighbor working for the NY Journal. Don't you get it, Wes? He might KNOW me. I'm a journalist. So is he. Yeah, we work for rival papers, but for God's sake, the field's pretty small. What if he opens the door and it turns out we've been to the same conferences-or crime scenes?

Your cover will be blown. Or do you not care?

Blaine

PS And how am I supposed to email him? He's going to know I'm not you when he reads my address.

* * *

To: Blaine Anderson

From: Wes Montgomery

Subject: Operation Paco

Of course I care. And don't worry, I already checked him out. She does the gossip page. I doubt you've been running into any gossip columnists at the crime scenes you've been covering lately.

Wes

PS Apply for a second email account. My God, it's not like you don't have the money.

PPS Quit bugging me. Vivica and I are trying to watch the sunset.

* * *

To: Wes Montgomery

From: Blaine Anderson

Subject: I'm not happy

Gossip? He's a gossip columnist, Wes? He's going to know I'm not you for SURE.

Wes? WES?

* * *

To: Mercedes Jones

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: Wes Montgomery

Oh my God, Mercedes! I heard from him!

He's on assignment in Ethiopia, photographing little starving kids for the Save the Children Fund! And I've just asked him to leave to come home and take care of his aunt's dog! What kind of a horrible bitch must I seem to him? Oh God, I knew I shouldn't have tried to contact him. Now he's going to hate me.

KH

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Mercedes Jones

Subject: Wes Montgomery

What's more important to him, a bunch of starving kids he doesn't know, or his aunt's dog? I don't mean to sound cold, but starving children or not, the man has to take some responsibility. Besides, his aunt is in a coma, Kurt. I mean, if your only living relative is in a coma, you come home, for God's sake, starving kids or not.

When's he getting here, anyway? Are you going to be able to make the pool party?

Because Sam's threatening to break off the engagement if I don't go.

Mercedes :-/

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Dolly Vargas

Subject: Wes Montgomery

Darling, I could hear you shrieking all the way in the art department. I thought at the very least the cast of Girls was breaking up. But now I find out it's only because Wes Montgomery emailed you. But what's this I hear about him doing it from in Ethiopia? Wes Montgomery would NEVER go to Ethiopia. My God, it's so...dusty there. You must be confusing him with someone else.

Now, listen, about Aaron: I am bound and determined to make him into something I wouldn't be ashamed to introduce to Stephen. So do you think he'll resist strongly to my steering him over towards Barney's? He's simply got to have some linen pants, don't you think? He'll look so devastatingly F Scott Fitzgerald in linen.

Can you say something, darling, next time you pass him on your way to the copier?

Something completely cutting like, Nice khakis, ought to put him exactly where I want him.

Dolly XXXOOO

* * *

To: Burt and Carole Hummel

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: Quinn Fabray

Hi, Carole. Sorry it took me so long to get back to you. Things here have been pretty busy, like I mentioned to you over the phone. I'm still walking Mrs. Montgomery's dog, but tonight her nephew is supposed to come by, and hopefully we'll work something out.

Which is good because I've been getting into trouble at work for being late every day. I don't know why people in Human Resources have such axes to grind against us every day working stiffs. It's like they think they're special, or something, because they control what goes into our performance files.

Anyway, other than the stuff with Mrs. Montgomery (don't worry, I always lock my door, and I never open my door to strangers-besides, Ralph, the doorman, would never let a stranger up without buzzing me first), things have been going okay. I'm still stuck on Page Ten-I can't convince Mr. Schuester, my boss, that I really could do hard reporting, if he'd let me.

Let's see, what else? Oh, I broke up with that guy I told you and Dad about. It wasn't going anywhere. Well, at least, I didn't see it going where he saw it going. Besides, it turns out he was cheating on me with Adam Crawford. Well, I guess he wasn't really cheating since he and I never really did anything anyway-don't let Dad read this, all right?

Oh, there's the buzzer. Mrs. Montgomery's nephew is here. I have to go.

Love,

Kurt

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Burt and Carole Hummel

Subject: Strange men

Kurt! You call me as soon as that man is gone! How could you let a man you've never met before into your apartment? He could be that serial killer I saw on the Inside Edition!

The one who puts on his victims clothes and strolls around in them after he's done hacking their bodies into pieces! If you don't call Burt and me within one hour, I'm telephoning the police. I mean it, Kurt.

Carole


	3. Chapter 3

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Mercedes Jones

Subject: Wes Montgomery

So? What was he like?

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Sam Evans

Subject: Well?

DON'T TELL MERCEDES I WROTE THIS.

But listen, Kurt, you have GOT to get this guy to take over the dog-walking thing for you.

Because if you don't, and you can't come to this engagement party at my Uncle George's, Mercedes's going to have a nervous breakdown. I swear to God. Don't ask me why, but she's got this thing with her weight, and she needs like your moral support or something every time she has to get into a bathing suit.

So as her man of honor, it is your duty to appear with her at this party on Saturday. So get this dude to walk the dog that day, okay?

If he gives you a hard time, let me know. I'll take care of him. People think guys who cook can't be tough, but that's not true. I'll do to the guy's face what I did to tonight's special, which happened to be veal picatta-pounded flat and swimming in the lightest white wine sauce you ever tried. I'll give you the recipe if you want later.

NOW DON'T FORGET!

Sam

* * *

To: Blaine Anderson

From: Wes Montgomery

Subject: Operation Paco

You wore loafers, right? When you went to see him tonight?

Just tell me you wore appropriate shoes.

Wes

* * *

To: Cooper Anderson

From: Blaine Anderson

Subject: How'd It Go?

Just wondering how your little performance this evening went.

And Stacy wants to know if you're still coming for dinner on Thursday like we planned.

Cooper

* * *

To: Blaine Anderson

From: Wes Montgomery

Subject: HI!

HI! THIS IS VIVICA, WES'S FREIND, WRITING TO YOU ON EMAIL! WES IS

IN THE HOT TUB BUT HE ASKED ME TO ASK YOU HOW IT WENT WITH THAT WEIRD GUY WHO HAS THE DOG PROBLEM. DID HE BELIEVE THAT YOU ARE WES? IT IS WEIRD TO BE WRITING TO YOU SEEING AS HOW I DON'T EVEN KNOW YOU. WHAT IS THE WEATHER LIKE IN NEW YORK? HERE IT IS EIGHTY AND BEAUTIFUL.

WE SAW SOME PERFORMING CATS TODAY. IT WAS CRAZY! WHO KNEW CATS COULD DO THAT?

OH WES SAYS TO ASK YOU TO CALL HIM HERE AT THE HOTEL AS SOON AS YOU GET THIS MESSAGE. THE NUMBER IS 904-555-6576. ASK FOR THE SOPRADILLA COTTAGE. SOPRADILLA IS A FLOWER. IT GROWS ALL OVER KEY WEST. KEY WEST IS ONLY NINETY MILES FROM CUBA, WHERE I ONCE DID A SWIMSUIT SHOOT. UH OH I HAVE TO GO WES IS HERE IIEEIHHILZHMND

V...

* * *

To: Mercedes Jones

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: What he's like

Okay, the stats:

I would say five foot eight. Broad shoulders. Dark hair, but not too dark. Nice brown eyes. You know the kind. Sometimes green. Sometimes brown. Sometimes searing into my soul... Just kidding. As for the rest:

I don't know. It's kind of hard to explain. He wasn't what I was expecting, that's for sure. I mean, from what I'd heard, about the modeling shoots and everything, I was expecting a real smooth operator, you know? But what kind of smooth operator goes around in a high school lacrosse team shirt? And he had on jeans. And deck shoes with no socks.

I expected Gucci loafers at least.

And he was so modest-I mean, for a guy who entered a nude picture of himself into the Biennial. I think Dolly must be exaggerating about that. Maybe he wasn't really nude.

Maybe he was wearing one of those flesh-colored body stockings they wear, you know, in the movies.

And he didn't want to talk about his trip to Ethiopia at all! When I mentioned the work he was doing for the Save the Children fund, he actually seemed embarrassed, and tried to change the subject. I tell you, Mercedes, he doesn't seem at all the way Dolly described him.

Even Mrs. Montgomery didn't do him justice. She's always talked about him as if she thought he was a little irresponsible, but I'm telling you, Mercedes, he didn't seem that way to me. He asked all sorts of things about what happened-I mean about the break-in, and all. Although I guess it wasn't really a break-in, since the door wasn't even locked...

Anyway, it was really touching how much he seemed to care about his aunt. He asked me to show him where I found her, and how she was lying, and if anything was missing...

It was almost as if he'd had some experience dealing with violent crime...I don't know.

Maybe there were some catfights at the Victoria's Secret shoot?!

Another odd thing: he seemed kind of surprised at how big Paco is. I mean, considering that I know Mrs. Montgomery had Wes over for dinner at least a few months ago, and Paco's five years old, so it's not like he could have grown any. When I mentioned how last week Paco practically wrenched my shoulder out of its socket, Wes said he didn't see how a frail old lady could walk such a big dog on a regular basis.

Isn't that funny? I guess only a nephew would think of Mrs. Montgomery as frail. She's always seemed like a tough old bird to me. I mean, considering that last year she hiked all over Yosemite...

Anyway, Mercedes, I'm so glad you made me get in touch with him! Because he said he didn't feel right about me walking Paco with my hurt shoulder and all, and that he was going to move in next door, to take care of the animals and sort of keep an eye on things.

Can you believe that? A man who actually takes care of his responsibilities? I am still in shock.

I have to go-someone's at the door. Oh, God, it's the cops! Carole called the cops! I forgot to call her back! She seriously needs to take a chill.

Gotta go-

KH

* * *

To: Mercedes Jones

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: What he's like

Okay, the cops are gone. I explained about Carole and her obsession with the transvestite killer. They didn't even get that mad.

Anyway, Mercedes, do you want to know something else? About Wes Montgomery, I mean.

If you can stand it... From where I'm sitting, at my desk at home, I can see into his apartment-I mean, Mrs. Montgomery's apartment. Right into the spare bedroom. Mrs. Montgomery always kept the mini-blinds in that room down, but Wes opened them right up (to look at the city lights, I guess-we do have that nice view here on the 15th floor) and I can see him lying on the bed, typing something on his laptop. Tweedle-dum is on the bed beside him, as is Paco of course (no sign of Mr. Peepers, but then, he's shy).

I know it's wrong to look, but, Mercedes, they look so nice and happy in there! And I guess it doesn't hurt that Wes really has very nice forearms...

Oh, God. I had better go to bed. I think I'm getting slap-happy.

Love,

Kurt

* * *

To: Cooper Anderson

From: Blaine Anderson

Subject: How'd It Go?

He's gorgeous. Help.

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Dolly Vargas

Subject: Wes Montgomery

Darling, did I overhear you correctly when I ran into you and Mercedes at Starbucks this morning? Did you say Wes Montgomery actually moved in next door to you?

And that you were actually spying on him? And that you saw him naked?

I seem to have gotten some water in my ears last weekend at Stephen's, so I just want to make sure I heard you right before I call every single person I know and tell them.

Dolly XXXOOO

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Mercedes Jones

Subject: Dolly

Kurt-

Would you stop obsessing? Who is she going to tell? Dolly doesn't know that many people. And the ones she does know all hate her and wouldn't believe her anyway.

Trust me.

Mercedes

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Aaron Spender

Subject: You

Kurt, did I hear this from Dolly correctly? Did a naked man move in next door to you? What happened to the old lady? Did she end up dying? I hadn't heard. I'm very sorry for your loss, if that's the case. I know the two of you were fairly close, for Manhattan neighbors. But I don't think its appropriate for a man to parade around nude in front of his neighbors. You really ought to complain to the co-op board about this, Kurt. I know you are only renting, and that you don't like to make waves because you have such a good deal on the place, but this kind of thing could be perceived as a sexual assault.

Really, it could.

Kurt, I was wondering if you'd given any thought to what I said in the elevator the other day. I really meant it. I think it's time. I remember that day when we went walking through Central Park during your lunch hour. It seems so long ago, but it was only last spring. You purchased a hot dog from an outdoor vendor, and I urged you not to, because of that story I did on carcinogens in street cart food. I'll never forget the way your blue eyes flashed at me as you said, Aaron, in order to die, you have to live a little first.

Kurt, I've decided: I want to live. And the person I want to live with, more than anyone else in the world, is you. I believe I am ready to make a commitment.

Oh, Kurt, please won't you let that commitment be with you?

Aaron

Aaron Spender

Senior Correspondent

The New York Journal

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Will Schuester

Subject: Tardiness

So Dolly tells me you finally got in touch with the dog guy. That would explain why you were on time this morning for the first time in 27 days.

Congratulations, kid. I'm proud of you. Now if you'd just start handing in your copy on time, I won't have to fire you. But I guess I shouldn't count on that happening, since I hear this new neighbor of yours looks pretty good in the buff.

WS

* * *

To: Dolly Vargas

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: Wes Montgomery

Dolly, I swear to God, if you tell one more person that I saw Wes Montgomery naked I will personally come over there and put a stake through your heart, which I hear is the only way to stop people like you. He was not NAKED, okay? He was fully clothed.

FULLY CLOTHED AT ALL TIMES. Well, except for his forearms. But that's all I saw, I swear it. So stop telling people otherwise!

Kurt

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Dolly Vargas

Subject: Wes Montgomery

Darling, have I struck a nerve or something? I've never seen you use All Caps quite so strenuously. Wes must have really made an impression on you for you to be so heated up. But then, he has that effect on people – men and women, from what I hear. He can't help it. Pheromones, you know. The man is lousy with them. Well, must go. Peter Hargrave is taking me to lunch. Yes, that's right,

Peter Hargrave the editor in chief. Who knows, when I get back from lunch, I just might have a nice fat promotion. But don't worry, I won't forget the little people.

Dolly XXXOOO

PS What do you think of Aaron's new pants? Aren't they just the thing? Hugo Boss. I know, I know. But it's a start.

* * *

To: Sam Evans

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: Saturday

Hi! Just a quick note to tell you not to worry-I'll be there Saturday. Yes, the dog guy actually showed up! See you then-

Proud to be your future wife's man of honor-

KH

* * *

To: Blaine Anderson

From: Cooper Anderson

Subject: How'd It Go?

He's gorgeous? That's IT? You're just going to leave me hanging here?

WHAT HAPPENED?

Cooper

PS Stacy wants to know, too.

* * *

To: Cooper Anderson

From: Blaine Anderson

Subject: How It Went

Sorry. I got hung up on a story, and then I had to go back to Montgomery's aunt's place to walk the dog. Wes failed to mention that the misleadingly-named Paco is a GREAT DANE.

The dog weighs more than Mim. So what do you want to know?

Did he believe I was Wes Montgomery? I am sorry to say that he did. Did I play the part of Wes Montgomery to perfection? I guess I must have, or he wouldn't have believed I was he. Do I feel like a grade-A heel for doing it? Yes. Self-flagellation and a big scarlet letter A for me.

The worst part is...well, I already told you the worst part. He thinks I'm Wes Montgomery. Wes Montgomery, the ingrate who doesn't even seem to care that someone cold-cocked his eighty-year-old aunt. Kurt cares, though.

That's his name. The gorgeous guy. Kurt. He moved to the city right after college, which makes him about twenty-seven years old, since he's lived here for five years. Originally, he's from Lima, Ohio. Have you ever heard of Lima, Ohio? You should have since it wasn't too far away from Westerville. He says it's a small town where you can walk down Main Street and everyone goes, Oh, hi, Kurt.

Just like that. Oh, hi, Kurt.

On his bookshelves are, among a great many other books, copies of every single thing ever written by Stephen King. Kurt has a theory that for every century, there's a writer who sums up the popular culture of the time, and for the nineteenth century, it was Dickens, and for the twentieth, it was Stephen King.

He says it has yet to be determined who is going to be the voice of the twenty-first century. You know what my ex Parker (you remember Parker, don't you, Cooper? He's the one you and Stacy referred to as the Mouth Breather?) had on his bookshelves, Cooper?

The complete works of Kierkegaarde. He'd never read Kierkegaarde, of course, but the book covers matched the color of his sofa cushions. That's what he saw me as. Parker, I mean. A human-sized checkbook that could pay off his decorating bill. Remind me again why Mim was so upset when he and I broke it off?

Oh, and when I got there, he offered me wine or beer. Kurt, not Parker.

Not seltzer. Not some fancy, big name wine. Not Glenfiddich on the rocks, or a Cosmo. "Wine or beer, just like Rent," he said. When I asked about the beer, he said he had two kinds: light, and root. I had root. So did he. He showed me where Wes's aunt keeps the dog and cat food. He told me where to buy more, in case I ran out. He told me what Paco's favorite walks were. He showed me how lure a cat named, and I kid you not, Mr. Peepers, out from underneath the bed. He asked me about my work for the Save the Children fund. He asked me about my trip to Ethiopia. He asked me if I'd been to visit my aunt in the hospital, and if it had upset me very much, seeing her with all those tubes coming out of her. He patted me on the arm and told me not to worry, that if anyone could come out of a coma, it was my aunt Helen.

And I stood there and grinned like an idiot and pretended I was Wes Montgomery.

Anyway, I'm moving in. To Helen Montgomery's apartment. So if you need to call me, the number's 212-555-8972. Only don't call. Loud ringing noises, I've discovered, upset .

Gotta go.

Blaine

* * *

To: Blaine Anderson

From: Cooper Anderson

Subject: Who are you?

And what have you done with my brother? He used to be a rational human being, until he started pretending to be Wes Montgomery and met this Kurt person.

ARE YOU INSANE? You can't move into that woman's apartment. What is wrong with you? GET OUT NOW WHILE YOU STILL CAN.

Cooper

* * *

To: Blaine Anderson

From: Cooper Anderson

Subject: I think it's sweet

Hi, Blaine. It's Stacy, your sister-in-law. Cooper let me read your last email. I hope you don't mind. I also hope you don't listen to him. I think what you are doing is very sweet, helping out that poor guy next door with the old lady's pets. Cooper is trying to tell me that you aren't doing it to be nice, and something about thin but toned guys, but I am not listening to him.

He has a very sick mind. He told me just the other day that the music on my pregnancy exercise video sounds like the music from a porno! When has he ever watched porn, is what I would like to know.

Anyway, I'm just saying, don't you feel bad about pretending to be this Wes person.

It's for a greater good. And why don't you ask the little hottie over for dinner on Sunday night? I'll make sure I tell the girls to call you Wes. They'll think it's fun, I'm sure. Like a game! Well, that's all for now. Hope to see you soon.

Your loving sister-in-law,

Stacy

* * *

To: Michael Everett

From: Blaine Anderson

Subject: Contact

Please note that for the next several weeks, I will be available only by cell phone. Do not leave messages for me on my home phone. I can always be reached by email, either at this address, or my new Freemail account, username johnlives.

Thanks

Blaine Anderson

Senior Crime Correspondent

The NY Chronicle

* * *

To: Cooper Anderson

From: johnlives

Subject: For Stacy

Dear Stacy,

I'd just like to thank you for being so understanding about my current situation. You see, my brother, your husband, has a tendency to take a very cynical view of everything.

Don't ask me how he got this way, since Cooper has always been the lucky one: he's the one who got the head for business, while all I got was, if you'll excuse the cliché, the body for sin. He was also lucky enough to get you, Stacy. I guess it's easy for a guy who's got such a gem for a wife to sit back and criticize the rest of us poor slobs, who can't even find a geode out there, let alone a jewel. I guess Cooper doesn't remember how hard it was for him to meet a girl who was actually attracted to him, and not the Anderson family fortune.

Apparently, Cooper doesn't remember Michelle. Be sure to ask him about Michelle, Stacy. Or Fiona, for that matter. Or Monica, Karen, Louise, Cathy, or Alyson.

Go on, ask him. I'd be curious to see what he has to say about any of them.

What Cooper doesn't seem to realize is that he has already found the best girl in the world. He forgets that some of us losers are still out there looking for our own happy ending.

So tell your husband to cut me a little slack, will you, Stacy?

And thanks for the invitation, but if it's all right with you, I'll skip dinner this Sunday.

Love,

Blaine

PS Write back to me at my new address, listed above. I'm not sure whether it works yet.

* * *

To: johnlives

From: Cooper Anderson

Subject: Your new email address

Blaine:

John lives? Have you lost your mind? THAT's the address you chose as your Kurt safe account?

You might be surprised to know that most hip guys have no idea about your obsession with The Beatles – they're great but shouldn't your email have something a little more… obvious in it? Besides, do you even know if this Kurt guy is gay? A sure way to tell him that you're gay could be by using some Broadway actress or something in your email address.

And stop writing to my wife. All I've heard from her all day is Who's Alyson? Who's Michelle? Next time I see you, Blaine, you are a dead man.

Cooper

* * *

To: Cooper Anderson

From: johnlives

Subject: John

You're wrong. The Beatles are still favored as a top five band by all generations and types of people – even gay guys. In fact, I took an office poll with the few gay guys here and The Beatles won out over Broadway stars nearly five to one-although the guy from the mailroom doesn't really listen to The Beatles or Broadway, so his vote doesn't count.

Besides, I looked at Kurt's CDs when he was in the kitchen getting the root beer, and I saw at least two CDs of Beatles albums and a handful of other musicians from the 60s, 70s, and 80s. Don't pretend like you know what young gay guys like when you aren't either – gay or young.

Blaine

* * *

To: johnlives

From: Cooper Anderson

Subject: You know nothing about young gay men

And you do?

* * *

To: Sergeant Paul Reese

From: Blaine Anderson

Subject: Helen Montgomery

Reese-

I was wondering if you could do me a favor. I need a look at anything you've got on Helen Montgomery, 12-17 West 82nd, Apt. 15A. She was a B & E with, I believe, an assault-a pretty serious one, since she's been in the ICU ever since, comatose.

I appreciate it, and no, it's not for a story, so don't worry about your CO.

Blaine Anderson

Senior Crime Correspondent

The New York Chronicle

* * *

To: Wes Montgomery

From: Blaine Anderson

Subject: Helen Montgomery

Don't worry. Everything went fine. I safely evaded Mr. Hummel's queries about my work for the Save the Children Fund. Nice one, by the way. I suppose by children you mean those 18-year-old gum-chewing sticks you spend your days photographing in fashions only 48-year-old divorcees can afford?

You really are a bastard, you know.

Blaine

* * *

To: Blaine Anderson

From: Wes Montgomery photoguy

Subject: Lighten up

God, I forgot what a stick in the mud you could be. No wonder you haven't had a boyfriend in so long. What was wrong with the last one? Oh, yeah, I remember: the Kierkegaarde collection that matched the sofa. Dude, you need to chill. Who cares what books a guy's got on his shelves? It's what he's like between the sheets that matters, heh heh heh.

Wes

* * *

To: Blaine Anderson

From: Sergeant Paul Reese

Subject: Helen Montgomery

Anderson-

File's on its way. Or should I say some copies of the file that were accidentally made

while the CO was at lunch. If any of this shows up in your paper, Anderson, you can kiss that Mustang of yours good bye. Consider it impounded.

Brief summation of incident involving Helen Montgomery:

Call came in at approximately 8:50AM, reporting unconscious female in her home. We had a unit in the park nearby. They arrived on the scene at approximately 8:55AM.

Found victim being given first aid by man purporting to be neighbor. Later confirmed man as one Kurt Hummel, living next door in Apt 15B.

Victim approximately eighty-year-old woman. When originally found, was facedown on living room carpet. Witness claims in his statement that he turned the woman to check for heartbeat, respiratory distress, etc. Victim breathing with weak pulse when EMS arrived at 9:02AM. No sign of break-in or illegal entrance to home. Outside lock not tampered with. Door unlocked, according to neighbor.

According to doctors, victim was struck on the back of the head with blunt object, possibly small-caliber pistol. Assault occurred approximately twelve hours before discovery of victim.

Questions put to doormen and neighbors revealed that

a) no one called upon Apt. 15A the night previous to the discovery of the victim.

b) no one heard any sort of disturbance at or around 9PM that evening.

One added note: there were a number of the victim's clothing thrown across her bed, as if previous to accident, victim had been trying to decide what to wear. However, victim, when found, was in nightclothes, including hair curlers, etc.

A reporter might try to make something out of the fact that this could be construed as another attack by the transvestite killer. There is one major difference, however: the transvestite killer actually kills his victims, and tends to stick around to make sure they are really dead.

Additionally, the transvestite killer's victims have all been in their 20s, 30s, and 40s. Mrs. Montgomery, though apparently spry for her age, was unlikely to be mistaken for a younger woman. Well, that's it. We got nothing. Of course, if the old lady croaks, that'll change things. Then the thing shifts to a homicide, and we'll get the dicks in and dust for prints, etc. But unless that happens, this is being treated as an interrupted robbery.

That's all I can think of. Good luck, and tell your colleagues to knock it off already on the Street Crime Unit. Yeah, some of them are scumbags, but most of them are good guys.

Paul


	4. Chapter 4

To: Mercedes Jones

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: He didn't mean it

Mercedes, you know he didn't mean it. At least not the way you think he did.

All Sam was saying is that if you're going to sit around and complain about your weight so much, why not do something about it and join a gym. He never said you were fat. All right? I was there. HE DID NOT SAY YOU'RE FAT. Now are you seriously going to tell me you didn't have fun at the party? And Sam's Uncle George is a doll. That toast he gave the two of you...it was so sweet! I swear, Mercedes, sometimes I'm so jealous of you I could burst.

I would give anything to find a guy with an Uncle George who'd throw me a pool party and call me a Venus. And you did NOT look fat in that suit. My God, it had enough Gortex in it to keep Marlon Brando's flab in check. Your tiny belly didn't stand a chance.

So would you snap out of it and act like an adult? If you're good, I'll let you come over and spy on Wes Montgomery with me...Oooh, look, tonight he's got on a muscle T...

Kurt

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Mercedes Jones

Subject: My butt

You are lying. About the muscle T and about what Sam meant. You know good and well he meant that he's sick of looking at my size sixteen rear end. I am sick and tired of looking at my size sixteen rear end. And I fully intend to join a gym.

I just don't need Sam suggesting it. It's his fault I'm this size, you know. I was a size twelve until he came along and started making me his trademark pappardella alla Toscana with four cheeses and a Marsala wine sauce every night. Oh, baby, come on, just try a taste, you've never had anything like it. Ha! And what about his rigatoni alla vodka? Vodka my ass. That's a cream sauce, and nobody can tell me any different. And as for being called a Botticelli Venus, believe me, there are better things to be called. Now what's the dog guy really wearing?

M :-/

* * *

To: Mercedes Jones

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: What he's wearing

What do you care what he's got on? You're engaged and I'm still 99% sure that Wes is gay. But if you insist...

Let me see, he is laying (or is it lying? No wonder they stuck me on Page Ten) on the bed in jeans and a T-shirt (sorry, no muscle T-you're right, I was lying to see if you were paying attention). He has his laptop out again. Paco is there beside him. Paco is looking disgustingly happy, I must say. That dog never looked that happy when I was over there.

Maybe- Oh my God! No wonder that dog is happy! He's feeding him Alpo-on the bed! That dog is getting Alpo all over Mrs. Montgomery's guest room's chenille bedspread! What is wrong with this man? Doesn't he realize chenille has to be dry-cleaned? Oh my god, what if he isn't gay? Gay men would know the care it would require for a duvet like that, right?! I mean, clearly I know but I realize the world at large maybe isn't as obsessive as I am with clothing care.

This is so pathetic. This is so pathetic, Mercedes. I mean, the pathos of it all just suddenly came washing over me. I am sitting here in my apartment, recording the guy next door's activities for my best friend, who is engaged. Mercedes, you are getting married! And what am I doing? Sitting here at home emailing my girlfriend.

I AM PATHETIC! I am worse than pathetic, I am- OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD, Mercedes! He just saw me.

I'm not kidding. He just waved! I am so embarrassed. I am going to die. I am going to-

Oh my God, he's opening the window. He's opening the window. He's saying something to me.

I'll get back to you.

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Mercedes Jones

Subject: WRITE BACK!

If you don't write me back tonight, I swear I am calling the cops. I don't care if I'm just like your stepmom. You don't know anything about this guy, except that his crazy aunt lives next door to you and he has a naked picture of himself up in the Whitney. Which I think you and I need to take a little field trip on Monday to see, by the way.

WRITE BACK TO ME- or the boys from the 87th Precinct will be paying you another visit.

PS: Just because he got Alpo on the chenille doesn't mean he's straight. Do you really think AARON knew how to care for chenille? Don't think so.

Mercedes

* * *

To: Mercedes Jones

From: Sam Evans

Subject: Cut it out

I've been trying to get through to you for the past two hours, but your phone's been busy. I can only assume that either it's off the hook because you don't want to talk to me, or you are yakking it up online with Kurt. If it is the latter, go off line and call me at the restaurant. If it is the former, stop being such a spaz.

All I said was if you're that freaked out about this whole wedding dress thing, get a personal trainer, or something. I mean, jeez, Mercedes, you're driving me crazy with this whole size twelve crap. Who CARES what size you are? *I* don't care. I love you exactly the way you are. And I don't give a rat's ass how many of your sisters have worn that stupid dress of your mother's. I hate that dress anyway. It's ugly. Just go out and buy a new dress, one that fits you the way you are NOW. You'll feel better in it and it will look better on you. Your mother will understand, and who cares what your sisters think? Screw your sisters, anyway. I have to go. Table 7 just sent back their salmon because it was undercooked.

See what you made me do?

Sam

* * *

To: Sam Evans

From: Mercedes Jones

Subject: Excuse me...

but I do not appreciate your attitude towards my sisters. I happen to like my sisters.

What if I said screw your brothers? What if I said screw your Uncle George? How would you like that, huh? It's all very well for you to talk. All you have to do is throw on some rented tuxedo. *I* on the other hand have to be radiant.

DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND? God, it's so easy to be a man.

Mercedes

* * *

To: Mercedes Jones

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: No big deal

He just couldn't figure out how to work his aunt's electric can opener. He bought Mr. Peepers some actual tuna in order to lure him out from under the bed. It didn't work, of course. I suggested next time he buy tuna in water rather than olive oil. I don't know that cats like olive oil so much.

Anyway, while I was there, he asked which was the best place in the neighborhood to order Chinese from. So I told him, and then he asked if I'd had dinner, and I said no, so he asked if I wanted to order with him, and so I said yes, and we had barbecued spare ribs, cold sesame noodles, moo shu pork, and chicken with broccoli at Mrs. Montgomery's kitchen table. And I know what you are going to say now, and no, it was not a date, Mercedes.

For God's sake, it was only Chinese food. In his aunt's kitchen. With Paco sitting there, waiting for one of us to drop something so he could vacuum it up in his jowls.

And no, he didn't make a pass at me. Wes, I mean, not Paco. Although I don't see how he could resist seeing as how I'm sure I was quite stunning in my It's-Saturday-Night-And-I-Don't-Have-A-Date jeans. I mean, I know I look flawless even in my casual wear, but let's be real, those jeans don't do things for my ass the way my skinnies do. The fact is, Dolly has to be wrong about Wes. He's hardly the casanova she made him out to be.

It was all very casual and friendly. It turns out we have a lot in common. He likes mysteries and so do I, so we talked about our favorite mysteries. We also talked about our favorite Broadway shows and I even found a copy of Vogue on the kitchen counter when he went to the bathroom. (Another possible point to the side of Wes being gay! Yes!)

You know, he is quite literary and well-cultured, for a photographer. I mean, compared to some of the guys in the art department at work. Can you picture Larry conversing knowingly about Edgar Allan Poe? I don't think so.

Oh, God, a horrible thought just occurred to me: what if all that stuff Dolly said about Wes is true, and he IS kind of a man whore? What does that mean, seeing as how he didn't make a pass at me? It can only mean one thing!

Either my gaydar was totally off (and I did hear that Wes was bi at least) or I'm hideous!

Kurt

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Mercedes Jones

Subject: Go take a Midol...

would you, please? You are not hideous. I'm sure all those things Dolly said about Wes Montgomery aren't true. I mean, it's DOLLY, for God's sake. She used to have YOUR job.

Only unlike you, she wasn't exactly scrupulous about what she reported. For instance, I sincerely doubt she'd have felt your moral outrage over what Matt Damon did to Winona all those many years ago when we were just babes.

I'm sure he's a very nice guy, just like you said. And the more you talk about him, the more I think he's gay. I know my gaydar might have been off once or twice (ahem... high school), but no straight men like Vogue and musicals. Hell, even AARON liked musicals and Sam only pretends to like them so he can try to get frisky in the theater when we go once in a blue moon.

Just sayin'.

Mercedes :-)

* * *

To: Dolly Vargas

From: Mercedes Jones

Subject: Wes Montgomery

All right. Spill it. What's the truth about this guy? Because he has basically moved in next door to Kurt and he's clearly smitten, despite his protests to the contrary. Is he really as bad as you say, or are you exaggerating, as usual? And remember: I am the head food critic at the paper. I can make sure you never get into Nobu again with a single phone call, so don't mess with me, Dolly.

Mercedes

* * *

To: johnlives

From: Cooper Anderson

Subject: So?

You're not speaking to me now, or what? All I said was that what you don't know about men would fill the Grand Canyon. What are you so touchy about all of a sudden?

Cooper

PS Stacy wants to know if you've asked the hottie out yet.

* * *

To: Cooper Anderson

From: johnlives

Subject: So?

I am not being touchy. What do you want from me? Not all of us have a personal assistant, a driver, an au pair, a housekeeper, a gardener, a team of pool maintenance workers, a tennis instructor, a nutritionist, and a job our grandfather handed to us to on a silver platter, you know. I'm just busy, all right? My God, I've got a full time job and a Great Dane I have to walk four times a day.

Blaine

PS Tell Stacy I'm working on it.

* * *

To: johnlives

From: Cooper Anderson

Subject: You ought to seek professional help

Listen, you psychotic freak: where is this hostility coming from? You know, you could have a job in your grandfather's office if you wanted one. Ditto a personal assistant. I don't know about a team of pool maintenance workers, as, living in the city, you don't have a pool. But everything I've got you could easily have if you would just give up this absurd quest you've embarked on to prove you can get along without Mim's money.

I'll tell you the one thing you really need that you don't have is a psychiatrist, buddy, because you seem to be in grave danger of forgetting something:

You do not have to walk that damn dog four times a day. Why? Because you are not Wes Montgomery. Got it? YOU ARE NOT WES MONTGOMERY, no matter what you're telling that poor guy.

Now get over yourself.

PS Mim wants to know if you are going to the dedication of that new wing we've donated to Sloan-Kettering. If you are, she requests that you wear socks for a change.

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: johnlives

Subject: Hi

It's me. Wes Montgomery, I mean. I'm johnlives. That's a reference to John Lennon.

How are you? I hope you didn't actually try those leftover cold sesame noodles yesterday. My share congealed overnight into something resembling stucco.

Look, I think some of your dry cleaning got delivered to my aunt's apartment last night instead of yours. At least, I don't think my aunt owns any slim fit mens trousers from Banana Republic-or at least, if she does, she unfortunately hasn't had much opportunity to wear them lately-so it must be yours, right? Maybe we could meet later for a dry cleaning exchange. Oh, and I noticed there's a digitally-restored re-release of Shadow of a Doubt playing tomorrow night at Film Forum. I know you said that was your favorite Hitchcock film.

I thought maybe we could catch a seven o'clock showing, if you don't have other plans, then maybe grab something to eat later-preferably not Chinese food. Let me know.

Wes Montgomery

PS I've been meaning to tell you, my friends call me Blaine. It's a college thing that sort of stuck.

* * *

To: johnlives

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: Hi back atcha

Sure. The seven o'clock show would be great. We could go to Hill Country Barbecue afterwards. That's right down the street from Film Forum. Thanks for rescuing my dry cleaning.

Ralph is always getting 15A and B confused. I am forever getting giant bags of Iams dog food delivered to my door. I'll pop by around nine to pick up my shirt, if that's not too late. I have a function to attend after work-an art opening I have to cover for my column. This guy actually does sculptures out of Vaseline. I am not kidding, either. And people actually buy them. The sculptures, I mean. Well, talk to you later.

Kurt

PS Blaine is sort of a strange nickname, isn't it?

PPS You might be surprised to know that I am actually aware of who John Lennon is. In fact, I have memorized his entire discography - Beatles and solo efforts.

* * *

To: Mercedes Jones

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: OMIGOD

HE ASKED ME OUT!

Well, kind of. It's just a trip to the movies, but that sort of counts, doesn't it?

Here read this copy of my reply and tell me if I sound too eager.

* * *

To: Mercedes Jones

From: Dolly Vargas

Subject: Wes Montgomery

Good God, I see what you mean. I haven't seen Kurt this excited since he found out about that Sex and the City movie. Thank God Aaron's on assignment in Botswana and doesn't have to be subjected to the delighted squealing coming from Kurt's cubicle. He is still pathetically hung up on that man. Why Kurt would want to throw away a work-in-progress like Aaron for a wretch like Wes, I can't imagine. I mean, at least Aaron has potential. I have known many men and women who've tried to change Wes, to no avail. In other words, Mercedes, be afraid: be very afraid.

Wes is everything our mothers warned us about (well, mine would have warned me about boys like Wes if she'd ever been home). Wes's modus operandi: very intense until he gets a person into bed, then he starts backing off. By that time they're usually besotted, and cannot understand why the formerly attentive Wes stops calling. Pathetic scenes ensue, in which cries of 'Why haven't you called?' and 'Who was that person I saw with you the other night?' Are answered with 'Stop suffocating me, and I'm not ready for a commitment.' Variations on this theme include: 'Can't we just take this one day at a time?' and 'I'll call you on Friday.' I swear it.

Are you getting the picture? Oh, and did I tell you about the time Wes made all the models on a Sports Illustrated swimsuit shoot ice down their nipples because they weren't sticking out enough? Darling, he'll eat our little Kurt up and spit him out.

You didn't really mean what you said about Nobu, did you?

Dolly XXXOOO

* * *

To: Mercedes Jones

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: OK, so what do I wear?

Seriously. Last time I saw him, I was in sweats, so I want to look really, really good. Come with me at lunch and help me pick something out. I'm thinking this new outfit I just got from Barney's with really tight fitting white jeans and a slim fit vest over top a blue button down. But do you think that's too much for a first date?

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Mercedes Jones

Subject: We need to talk

Meet me in the Ladies Room in five minutes.

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

cc: Mercedes Jones

cc: Dolly Vargas

From: Will Schuester

Subject: Doesn't anybody work here anymore?

Where the hell is everybody? Has it occurred to any of you that we have a paper to put out? Dolly, where's that story you were doing on stilettos, silent killers?

Mercedes, I'm still waiting for that review of Bobby Flay's new place.

Kurt, did you, or did you not, attend last night's premiere of the new Angelina Jolie film? I expected at least a diatribe from you about how she's constantly seeking more diverse roles now that she's got a brood of kids around her at all times.

If I don't see some butts in some chairs pretty soon, there's not going to be cake for any of you at Stella's baby shower. And I really mean it this time.

Will

* * *

To: Cooper Anderson

From: Blaine Anderson

Subject: Me? Hostile?

You ought to take a look in the mirror, Coop. You are not going prematurely bald because of your genes, bud. I am practically your genetic double, and not to brag or anything, but I still have a full head of hair. I know you do too, but I swear I have more than you.

You have got a lot of pent up hostility killing off those follicles. And if you ask me, it's all directed at Mim. It's your own fault for letting her run your life. See, I broke free, and guess what? Not a single damn strand on my pillow when I wake up in the morning. I am willing to overlook your intense personal insecurities for the moment in order to inform you that I will not be able to attend the dedication tomorrow night as I have alternate plans. I will elaborate no more, for fear of further fraternal wrath.

I like that, further fraternal wrath. Maybe I'll put that in my novel.

Fraternally yours, your faithful brother,

Blaine

* * *

To: Mercedes Jones

cc: Dolly Vargas

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: Chill

You two need to calm down. I am going out with the guy, okay? I am not diving into bed with him. As Aaron can attest, I do not dive into bed with anybody that easily, all right?

You guys are way overreacting. First of all, Dolly, I don't even believe that nipple story. And Mercedes, I am not the emotionally fragile mess you imagine me to be. Okay, I am concerned about Paris Hilton's love life, but it is not keeping me up nights. Ditto Jennifer Aniston. I can take care of myself.

Thanks for caring, though.

KH

* * *

To: Mercedes Jones

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: What is going on here?

What was that supposed to be? An intervention? I nearly died when I walked into the Ladies Room and Dolly was there with you. I kept looking around for the fax guy, thinking he was hiding in one of the stalls with a box of condoms and some edible massage oil, and her being there was all just some terrible mistake.

Mercedes, I don't care what Dolly says about Wes Montgomery. He is nothing like that.

Maybe he used to be, but he's changed. I mean, I know. I have spent time with the guy. And I've watched him with Paco, and especially with Mr. Peepers (okay, I admit it, so I spied on him through the window. Hey, I'm not proud. But it's the truth). Mr. Peepers hates everybody, but he is really starting to warm up to Wes, and I know you can't judge a person by how he or she relates to animals, but I think it says a lot about Wes that he has spent so much time getting to know his aunt's pets that even a distrustful and generally anti-social cat like Mr. Peepers is starting to warm up to him. OK?

And yeah, maybe my batting average ain't what it ought to be, considering the fact that Aaron was doing Adam Crawford behind my back and I never suspected a thing, but I really don't think Wes is just out to get me into bed. Because if what Dolly is saying is true, then Wes Montgomery could have anybody. So why would he want me? I am not being self-effacing, either. I mean, why would a guy like that go for a lanky, awkward gossip columnist when he could have-well, Neil Patrick Harris, if he wasn't happily married to that David Burtka, or Tom Daley or pretty much any woman given that he's bi? I mean, seriously, think about it, Mercedes.

That's all. I'm not mad, or anything. Just hurt, I guess. I mean, I'm not a baby.

KH

PS You can make it up to me by helping me pick out new shoes at Cole Haan to go with my new outfit.

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Mercedes Jones

Subject: Fine. Go out with him. See if I care.

But I want a full report the minute you get back. Understand? And I am warning you, Kurt, if this guy breaks your heart and you are mopey for my wedding, I will personally kill both him and you.

Mercedes :-[

* * *

To: Blaine Anderson

From: Cooper Anderson

Subject: What novel?

You're writing a novel now? You've shed the shackles of the family fortune, you're leading a double life, you're trying to solve the mystery behind the old lady's assault, and you're writing a novel? Who do you think you are, anyway? Bruce Wayne?

* * *

To: Cooper Anderson

From: Blaine Anderson

Subject: Batman

Actually, I don't believe Bruce Wayne ever wrote a novel, nor did he shed the shackles of the family fortune. He used his fortune quite extensively, I believe, in his crime-fighting efforts. Although he did, obviously, lead a double life. As for solving the mystery behind the old lady's assault, Bruce would probably have done a better job than I have so far. I just can't understand it-why would somebody try to bump off a harmless old lady like that? The closest the police have gotten to explaining it is that it was an interrupted robbery-but interrupted how? And by whom?

Kurt mentioned something about how the doormen often get his apartment, 15B, and Mrs. Montgomery's apartment, 15A, mixed up. Which got me thinking about what a cop friend of mine said-that it almost resembled the work of the transvestite killer, except that the old lady didn't fit the victim profile. I'm kind of wondering if maybe the guy got the wrong apartment...if Mrs. Montgomery wasn't his intended victim at all.

That once he'd realized his mistake, he tried to go through with it, but couldn't quite do it, and ended up leaving the job undone. I don't know. It's just something I've been thinking about.

I polled the doormen in the building, and none of them remember sending anyone up to the 15th floor that night- although one of them did ask me if I'd gotten my hair cut. Apparently, he'd seen Wes before, and while he recognized that I was not quite the genuine article, he couldn't make out just how precisely I had changed in appearance. Frightening how we take our security for granted, isn't it?

Anyway, if you're good, I'll send you the first couple chapters of my opus. It's about a bunch of people who lack any redeeming qualities-kind of like Mim's friends. You'll like it. Oh my God, I've got to go. I have to be at Film Forum in fifteen minutes-

Blaine

* * *

To: Blaine Anderson

From: Cooper Anderson

Subject: You are unbelievable

Film Forum? That's why you can't be at the dedication? You're going to the movies? The guy has something to do with this, doesn't he?

* * *

_A/N: Hope y'all are enjoying this story! I've gotten a few PMs, so I thought I'd clear this up. This is NOT a WIP - this fic is already complete and I will be posting on a weekly-ish basis. There are 15 chapters, so at this point we have 11 left. _

_Thanks to everyone for reading, writing comments and generally giving the love. xoxo to all of you!_


	5. Chapter 5

To: Mercedes Jones

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: My Date-A-Logue

18:00

Preparation for my date begins. I put on the stunning new shoes you helped me pick out. I notice that it looks a little too stunning for dinner and a movie. Add a popover sweater. Clinton Kelly would be pleased.

18:30

Depart for downtown. Know I must look nice, as I am groped on the 9 train between

Times Square and Penn Station. Elbow groper in the gut. Receive round of applause from fellow strap-hangers. Groper disembarks, looking shame-faced.

19:00

Arrive outside movie theater. There is a huge line! Scan line nervously for Blaine (did I tell you Wes asked me to call him Blaine? It's an old college nickname). Finally spot him at end of line, already holding tickets. My plan to go Dutch (therefore making this an outing between friends, and not a date, per your suggestion) instantly ruined! I rally by informing him I will buy popcorn and sodas. You will be pleased to know that Blaine graciously acquiesces to this plan.

19:00-19:20

Stand in line chatting about giant sink hole that has opened up on Church Street. You know how I love weather disasters. Well, it turns out Blaine does, too! This leads to a long conversation about our favorite disasters-though we spoke very softly in case anyone in line with us might have lost a relative in the latest hurricane or an F5 tornado, or something.

19:21

Line begins to move. Blaine goes to find seats. I go to buy popcorn and soda. Realize with dismay I forgot to tell him to get me a seat on the aisle due to absurdly small bladder. But when I get inside the theater, he has done just that-saved me the aisle seat! Now, really, Mercedes, has Sam ever once let you have the aisle seat? No, never, and you know it.

19:30-21:30

Watch movie. Eat popcorn. Notice Blaine can chew and breathe through his nose at the same time. This is a marked improvement over Aaron, who you will recall had a problem with that. I wonder if Dolly has noticed it yet. Though I'm still wondering how that is possibly working since Aaron is gay... but anyway.

Also, Blaine does not look at his watch while the movie is running. This was one of Aaron's most annoying habits. Then I notice that Blaine does not even wear a watch. Definitely an improvement over Aaron, who not only wore one but checked it obsessively every twenty minutes.

21:30-22:00

We walk over to Hill Country Barbecue and discover that it, like most popular Manhattan eateries, has been overrun by out-of-towners. There is a two hour wait for a table. I suggest we go for a slice at Joe's, which as you know has the best pizza in the city. On the way, Blaine tells amusing anecdote about his brother and a drunken midnight pilgrimage to Joe's. I say I did not know he had a brother, and then he says he meant a fraternity brother. This is upsetting: I don't know if I ever told you that after a particularly embarrassing incident involving a Delta Upsilon and a sock back when I was in college, I vowed never again to date another frat guy.

Then I remembered that this was not a date, but a friendly outing like you suggested, and I was able to relax again.

22:30-24:00

Pizza consumed standing up because there is no place to sit. While we eat, I relate amusing anecdote about how one time I ran into Gwyneth Paltrow at Joe's, and she ordered a slice with veggies and sauce but no cheese! This leads to discussion about my job, and how much I want to write features. It turns out Blaine has been reading Page Ten, and admires my sprightly but pithy style! Those were the words he used! Sprightly! And pithy! I am sprightly and pithy, aren't I? So then I tried to talk to him about his job.

I thought I could subtly find out the truth about that whole nipple thing. But he didn't want to talk about himself at all! He just wanted to know where I went to college, and stuff like that. He kept asking all these questions about Lima. As if that's interesting! Although I did my best to make it interesting. I told him about the time the Hell's Angels came to town, and of course about the tornado that took out the middle school's cafeteria (unfortunately during summer, so we didn't even get out of going to class).

Finally, I ran out of steam and suggested we head home. But on our way to the subway, we passed a karaoke bar! You know I can't resist karaoke. I don't know if he saw me looking wistful or what, but he went, Let's go in.

When I saw there was a $15 cover and two drink minimum I was like, No, we don't have to, but he said he'd buy the drinks if I paid the cover, which I thought was very decent because you know those places charge like ten bucks just for a beer, and so we went in and I got a second wind and had a very fun time and drank beer and ate peanuts and threw the shells on the floor and then by the time a Broadway hopeful had finished belting out some song from South Pacific and took a break and we realized it was midnight and we were both like, Oh, my God! Paco!

So we rushed home-we split a cab, which was expensive, but at that time of night was much faster than the subway-and got home before any major accidents or howling had occurred, and I said good night by the elevator, and he said we should do it again sometime, and I said I would love that and that he knows how to reach me, and then I went into my apartment and took a shower to wash all the smoke from the bar out of my hair, and Febrezed my sweater.

You will note that no passes were made (by either party) and that everything was very friendly and above board and mature. And now I hope you are ashamed of yourself for all the mean things you thought about him because he is really very sweet and funny and wore the nicest jeans I ever saw, not too tight – well, not as tight as mine - but not baggy either, with some very interesting faded parts, plus his sleeves were rolled up to just below his elbows- Uh-oh, here comes Will. He's going to kill me because he still wants tomorrow's pages. Gotta go.

KH

* * *

To: Mercedes Jones

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: Wait a minute...

Why didn't he make a pass at me? Oh my God! I really must be hideous after all!

* * *

To: Cooper Anderson

From: Blaine Anderson

Subject: The guy has something to do with this, doesn't he?

Well, of course.

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Mercedes Jones

Subject: So sue me

Okay. First of all, you are not hideous. Where do you get these things?

Secondly, I am willing to admit when I am wrong, and so I will admit it: I was wrong about the guy. Except for the part about him being gay. I know guys can like singing, but no man will willingly go to a karaoke bar with another guy unless it's a date. Just ask Sam about the time one of his college buddies tried to get him to go. Sam thought that the guy was harboring a crush on him for months after that.

Well, I'm wrong about Blaine/Wes. At least so far. I do think it's a little weird that he wants you to call him Blaine. I mean, what kind of nickname is that ? I'll tell you what kind: it's a name, not a nickname. But whatever. You're right. You're not a baby. You can make your own decisions.

You want to sit and listen to people butcher karaoke and eat peanuts and talk about disasters with him? You go right ahead. I will not try to stop you. It really isn't any of my business.

Mercedes

* * *

To: Mercedes Jones

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: All right...

What's wrong with you? Since when is anything I do not your business? In the many years you and I have known one another, you have poked your nose into every single detail of my life-as I have poked mine into yours. So what's this? It really isn't any of my business crap? Is there something going on that you're not telling me about?

You and Sam have made up, right? I mean, after that fight you had over what he said at Uncle George's.

Right? Right? Mercedes, you and Sam can't break up. You are the only couple I know who actually seem happy together. Except of course for James and Barbra.

KH

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Mercedes Jones

Subject: Yes, Sam and I...

made up. It's nothing to do with him. At least, not directly. It's just that-and I really don't mean this to sound self-pitying or whiny or anything-but the thing is, Kurt, I'm just so... FAT! I am so fat, and I can't lose any weight, and I'm tired of eating rice cakes, and Sam keeps on bringing home all the leftover bread from the restaurant and making French Toast every morning... I mean I love Sam, I really do, but the idea of getting up in front of all of his family with my butt the size that is just makes me want to heave. I am serious.

If only we could elope...

Mercedes :-(

* * *

To: Mercedes Jones

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: NO!

You can't elope! What am I going to do with that stupid eggplant-colored vest and tie you made me buy if you elope? Okay, this is it, Mercedes. You are forcing me to do this.

But I want you to remember, it's for your own good.

KH

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Mercedes Jones

Subject: Do what?

Kurt, what are you doing? You are making me very nervous. I hate when you get like this. And I thought you liked the color I picked out.

Kurt? KURT?

* * *

To: Harmony Fuller

cc: Mercedes Jones

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: Weight loss programs

Dear Ms. Fuller,

Since you people down in the Staff Assistance Program are so eager to help us beleaguered correspondents up here in the newsroom, I was wondering if you could let us know if the NY Journal offers its employees discounted membership rates at any of the nearby local gyms. Please let me know as soon as possible.

Thank you.

Kurt Hummel

Page Ten Correspondent

The New York Journal

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Mercedes Jones

Subject: Have you completely lost your mind?

WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?

I can't join a gym! I'm depressed, not suicidal!

I'm going to kill you...

Mercedes

* * *

To: johnlives

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: Talk about a disaster

Hey, did you check out the Weather Channel this morning? Major tropical depressions down in the Bahamas. I think we're looking at an upgrade to tropical storm any day now.

Keep your fingers crossed.

Kurt

PS Next time you're going up to see your aunt, let me know, and I'll come with you. I heard people in comas can recognize voices, so maybe I could try talking to her. You know, since I used to see her practically every day, and all.

* * *

To: Blaine Anderson

From: Wes Montgomery

Subject: Me

Hi! How's it going? Long time no heard from, huh? Just thought I'd check in. How's my aunt? The old bag croak yet? Just kidding. I know how sensitive you are about all that, so I won't wax humorous on that subject of old ladies meeting their makers.

Besides, I love the old harpy. I really do.

Well, things here in Key West are going swimmingly. And I do mean that literally. Viv and I found a nude beach the other day, and all I can say is, Blaine, if you haven't gone skinny dipping with a bow-legged supermodel, then, son, you haven't lived.

While she's in town having her bikini area waxed (for those occasions when we are required to garb ourselves, such as around the hotel pool) I thought I'd see how things were going with you, pal. You know, you really came through for me in a jam, and I don't want you to think I don't appreciate it.

In fact, I appreciate it so much, I am going to offer you some advice. Advice on dating, actually, since I know how you are about actually bagging a dude. You know, you shouldn't be so stand- offish. You really aren't a bad-looking guy. And now that you are, I trust, dressing with a little more class, thanks to my tutelage, I assume you are getting a little more action. It is time, I think, to move on to Wes Montgomery's Panoptic Guide to Dating.

There are seven types of people out there to date – guys or girls in my experience. Got that? Seven. No more. No less. That's it.

They are as follows:

1. avian

2. bovine

3. canine

4. caprine

5. equine

6. feline

7. porcine

Now, you might get your combinations of certain traits. For instance, you might have a very porcine gentleman-hedonistic, gluttonous, etc.-who is also a bit avian-empty- headed, a bit giddy, maybe. I would say the perfect combination would be a girl like Vivica but in dude form for you: feline-sexy and independent, while at the same time equine-haughty, yet poetic.

What you don't want is canine-overly dependent-or bovine-speaks for itself. And I'd stay away from caprines-fond of game-playing, and all that.

Well, that's all for today. I hope you've enjoyed your lesson-and that it made sense. I'm drunk off my ass right now, you know.

Wes

* * *

To: Wes Montgomery

From: Blaine Anderson

Subject: You

Please don't write to me anymore.

I will walk your aunt's dog and feed your aunt's cats. I will pretend to be you. But don't write to me anymore. Reading your pathetic ramblings on a subject that you will clearly never, ever come to understand is simply more than I can take at this point in my life.

Blaine

* * *

To: johnlives

From: Cooper Anderson

Subject: The guy

Hi, Blaine, it's me, Stacy. Cooper refuses to ask, so I will:

How's it going? I mean, with that guy, and pretending to be Wes Montgomery, and all of that? Let me know!

Love,

Stacy

PS We missed you at the dedication. You should have been there. Your grandmother was very hurt, as were the girls. They've really been bugging me about whether or not you're ever coming to visit us again. Are you?

* * *

To: Cooper Anderson

From: johnlives

Subject: How it's going

How is it going? You ask how it's going, Stacy? Well, I'll tell you: It's going awful, thanks. That's right. Awful. Everything is terrible. Everything shouldn't be terrible, of course.

Everything should be wonderful. I've met this completely terrific guy. I mean completely terrific, Stace: He likes tornadoes and karaoke, Broadway musicals, and anything to do with serial killers and he even reads Vogue like I do… not because I definitely don't stockpile old Vogues. Nope.

He eats up celebrity gossip with as much enthusiasm as he attacks a plate of moo shu pork, wears shoes that look way too uncomfortable and looks fabulous in them-but manages to look just as fabulous in TOMS and a pair of sweatpants. Not that I've seen him wear any, but I can imagine he'd look amazing. And he's nice. I mean, really, truly, genuinely kind. In a city where no one knows his neighbors, he not only knows hers, but actually cares about them.

And he lives in Manhattan. Manhattan, where people routinely step over the homeless in an effort to get into their favorite restaurants. As far as Kurt seems to be concerned, he never left Lima, Ohio, population 38,000. Broadway might as well be Main Street.

And get this: We went out the other night, and he wouldn't let me pay for him. Yes, you read that correctly: he _wouldn't let me pay_ for him. You should have seen his face when he realized I had already bought the tickets for the movie: You'd have thought I'd killed a puppy, or something. No man I have ever gone out with (and, contrary to what my brother might have told you, there have not been all that many) has ever paid for his own movie ticket—or anything else, for that matter, when he was out with me. Not that I ever minded paying. It's just that none of them ever even offered. And yeah, okay, they all knew they were out with Blaine Anderson, of the Park Avenue Andersons. How much am I worth today? Have you been keeping an eye on the NASDAQ?

But they never even offered. Are you getting this so far, Stace? After all the Heaths and Clintons and Murray (My God, remember Murray? And the disastrous Texas dip?) and all those Johns, I've finally met a Kurt, who wouldn't know an IPO from an IOU, a man who might potentially be more interested in me than in my investment portfolio...

And I can't even tell him my real name. No, he thinks I'm Wes Montgomery.

Wes Montgomery, whose brain I'm beginning to be convinced, atrophied at around the age of sixteen. Wes Montgomery, who has developed a panoply of character traits that I am convinced he derived from Saturday morning Hannah Barbera cartoons.

I know what you're going to say. I know exactly what you're going to say, Stace. And the answer is no, I can't. Maybe if I'd never lied to him about it in the first place. Maybe if right from the first moment I met him I'd said, Listen, I am not Wes. Wes couldn't make it. He feels really bad about what happened to his aunt, so he sent me in his place. But I didn't, all right? I blew it. I blew it from the very beginning.

And now it's too late to tell her the truth, because anything else I ever try to tell him, he'll think I'm lying about that, too. Maybe he won't admit it. But in the back of his mind, it will always be there. Maybe he's lying about this, too. Don't try to tell me he won't, either, Stace. And now he wants to go with me to visit Wes's aunt. Can you believe that?

The comatose aunt! He says he's read that people in comas can sometimes hear what's going on around them, even recognize voices. Well, Aunt Helen sure as hell won't recognize my voice, will she? So there you have it. My hellish life, in a nutshell. Got any advice? Any sage words of womanly wisdom to throw my way? No, I didn't think so. I am perfectly aware of the fact that I've dug this grave myself. I guess I have no choice but to lie down in it.

Cadaverously yours,

Blaine

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Dolly Vargas

Subject: Wes Montgomery

Darling, I couldn't help overhearing your little conversation with Mercedes near the fax machine-is it true the two of you have joined a gym and are starting spinning classes?

Well, bully for you both! I say more power to you. Let me know if they have bleachers or an observation booth or something where I can go and sit and cheer you on (and if they provide refreshments, preferably of the alcoholic variety, which is the only way you'll ever get me in a gym, by God).

Anyway, about that other thing I heard you mention. Do you want to know why he didn't make a pass at you? Wes Montgomery, I mean. If you think about it, it all makes sense...I mean, the stories we've heard about his ruthless womanizing or general man whoring despite his fear of commitment, his obsession with getting just the right shot of whatever particular subject he is photographing, his constant need for approval, his refusal to settle down in one place, and now this freakish name change thing? Really, it all might boil down to one little thing:

He's not into men. Well, maybe he was bi but now he's strictly vagina. It's perfectly obvious, darling. That's why he didn't make a pass at you.

Dolly XXXOOO

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Mercedes Jones

Subject: Calm down

He is not into women. All right? That is just Dolly. She is messing with your head. She's bored.

Peter Hargrave won't leave his wife for her, Aaron is still mooning around over you and is very obviously gay and not into her lady bits, and Dolly has nothing better to do than torture you. You are just playing right into her hands by getting all upset like this. Now, are we going to the noon or the five thirty class tomorrow?

Mercedes

PS I don't have to tell you how much I hate this, right? This exercise thing? I mean, in case you didn't know. I hate it. I really hate sweating. It's not natural. It really isn't.

* * *

To: Mercedes Jones

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: But that would explain...

why he didn't try to kiss me, or put his arm around me, or anything! He's into women! And I offered to go with him next time he goes up to the hospital to visit his aunt.

I must seem like the biggest nagging idiot in the world!

KH

PS Let's go to the noon class so we can get it over with. I know you hate it, Mercedes, but it's good for you. And sweating is natural. People have been doing it for many thousands of years. You know what's not natural? Mariah Carey's chest.

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Mercedes Jones

Subject: Are you...

suffering from a synaptic breakdown? First of all, he's not straight. Not if he was willing to spend that much time with a guy and be willing to pay for things. Trust me, Sam does not pay for any of his friends and we know he is the epitome of straight. ;-) And also, I would like to bring back up the point about the karaoke...

Secondly, even if he was straight, you're saying you want to go with him to see his comatose aunt is hardly nagging. It's actually very nice. I told you not to listen to Dolly.

Remember how you said he reads Vogue? Remember that? No straight men read and hoard their Vogue collection like you said Blaine does.

Mercedes

PS Everyone knows Mariah had work done. This is a surprise to you?

* * *

To: Mercedes Jones

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: Oh

Yes. You're right. No straight man would ever have intimate knowledge of the past twenty Vogue covers like he did.

Thank God I have you in my life, Mercedes.

KH

PS But if he isn't straight, how come he hasn't written back? I emailed him ages ago about some tropical depressions, and since then, they've already been upgraded to storms!

* * *

To: johnlives

From: Cooper Anderson

Subject: Oh for God's sake...

Just call the guy, would you? While you're sitting around beating yourself up, some other man could be stealing him out from under your nose!

Don't worry-the Wes Montgomery stuff will work itself out. You wouldn't believe some of the lies Cooper told me when we first started going out...foremost of which was that he went out once with Jody Foster. He just didn't mention that it was when she happened to be on the same ferry he was taking to Catalina Island. He also forgets that Jody Foster recently came out, so now his story really couldn't hold water.

Yeah, he went out with her, all right. Oh, and your mother showed my a picture of this Michelle girl, whom your brother insists was the most beautiful woman he has ever known: Hello, somebody call the pound, I think there's a pit bull on the loose- And here comes Cooper, he's screaming something about grilled cheese and why don't I get my own email account, and why must I keep pillaging his, and now he's trying to shove me out of his chair, even though I am seven months pregnant with his unborn son, not to mention the mother of his daughters-

* * *

To: johnlives

From: Cooper Anderson

Subject: Go away

I just want you to know that while you are burdening my wife with your half-assed problems-all of which, by the way, are of your own making-everything here is going to pieces. I just had to make the girls their lunch and the cheese dripped out into the toaster all over everything and started a fire. So all I have to say to you is get your own husband already and stop bothering my wife.

Cooper

* * *

To: johnlives

From: Cooper Anderson

Subject: HI UNCLE BLAINE

IT'S US, HALEY AND BRITTANY. MOMMY AND DADDY ARE HAVING A BIG FIGHT OVER WHAT YOU SHOULD DO ABOUT THE MAN. MOMMY SAYS YOU SHOULD CALL HIM UP AND ASK HIM OUT TO DINNER.

DADDY SAYS YOU SHOULD GET THERAPY.

IF YOU MARRY THE MAN, WILL HE BE OUR UNCLE LIKE YOU?

WHEN ARE YOU COMING TO SEE US? WE MISS YOU. WE HAVE BEEN VERY GOOD. EVERY TIME THAT VEIN IN DADDY'S HEAD STARTS TO TURN PURPLE WE SING THAT SONG YOU TAUGHT US, JUST LIKE YOU SAID TO. YOU KNOW WHICH SONG. THE ONE ABOUT DIARRHEA.

WELL, WE HAVE TO GO, DADDY SAYS TO GET OFF HIS DESK. WRITE SOON!

LOVE,

BRITTANY AND HALEY


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Thanks to everyone for favoriting, following, and commenting! Your kind words always make my day! Be sure to tell your friends to do the same. ;) _

_And because I love y'all so much, here's an extra long chapter!_

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: johnlives

Subject: baseball sized hail, and other weather anomalies

Dear Kurt,

Sorry it took me so long to get back to you. I had some business that needed tending to. But it looks like it's all more or less in order now-at least, as much as it can be for the moment. It's sweet of you to offer to visit my aunt with me, but you really don't have to.

Wait. Stop. I know what you're going to say. So to cut you off at the chase, might I suggest that we do it tomorrow evening, if you don't already have plans?

And I think I will take this opportunity to discuss something that has been weighing somewhat heavily on my conscience ever since we met: The great debt I owe you for saving my aunt's life. Stop. Again, I know what you're going to say. But the fact of the matter is, you did exactly that. The police told me so.

So although it is rather an inadequate means of expressing my immense gratitude and appreciation for what you did, I was hoping that you'd let me take you out to dinner some night. And since I know how deeply this will offend your Midwestern sensibilities, I am prepared to let you pick the restaurant, lest you worry that I might choose a place destined to bankrupt me. Think it over and let me know. As you are aware, my evenings are, thanks to Paco, quite free from seven until eleven-eleven thirty when I forget to fill his water bowl.

Sincerely,

Blaine

PS Did you see that thing on the Weather Channel last night? Why is it that people who attempt to drive through flash-flood swollen rivers in their SUVs always end being people who don't know how to swim?

* * *

To: Mercedes Jones

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: He wrote back!

And he asked me out.

Well, sort of. I guess it's more of a pity slash thank you thing than an actual date.

But maybe if I get just the right outfit put together...

You're the restaurant expert. Which one should I pick?

KH

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Mercedes Jones

Subject: You aren't going to...

be able to pay your rent next month if you keep buying outfits to impress this guy. I have an idea. Wear something you already own. He can't have seen everything you own already. He only moved in a couple of weeks ago, and I know you have ten million shirts.

Here's another idea: why don't the two of you come to Fresche? That way, Sam and I can get a look at him and let you know what we think.

Just a thought.

Mercedes

* * *

To: Mercedes Jones

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: HA!

What do you think I am, stupid? We aren't going anywhere near Fresche. Not in a million years.

KH

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Sam Evans

Subject: So we're not good enough for you, huh?

I guess when it comes to fine dining, you really know who your friends are. I mean, evidently, you have some kind of prejudice against my restaurant that I never knew about before now. And yet whenever I've offered to grill you up some of my classic chicken paillard, you've never turned me down. Could it be that all this time, you've merely been humoring me?

What about Mercedes? She's not really your best friend, is she? You probably have some fancy other best friend tucked away for emergencies, don't you?

It's all becoming clear now.

Sam

* * *

To: Sam Evans foodie

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: You know good and well

why I don't want to go to your restaurant. I don't care to be gawked at by my best friend and her boyfriend! And you know it. You are really insufferable, you know that? It's a good thing you're such a good cook-and so good-looking, too, of course.

KH ;-)

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Dolly Vargas

Subject: Dinner

Darling, are you mad? You have simply got to make him take you to La Grenouille. There just isn't anywhere else worthwhile. And it isn't as if he can't afford it. My God, Wes Montgomery made a fortune photographing that Vivica creature for that new Maybelline print campaign. After all, you did give that woman mouth-to-mouth. For that he owes you something from Tiffany's, or Cartier, at the very least.

Dolly XXXOOO

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Will Schuester

Subject: Corner Bistro

That's where you make the guy take you. Best burgers in the city. Plus you can watch the game while you eat.

WS

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Jimmy Chu

Subject: How can you even

think of going anywhere but Great Shanghai? You know it's the best Peking duck in the city.

Jim

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Tim Grabowksi

Subject: Gaydar

Mercedes passed me your friend Blaine's latest email, which I guess you forwarded to her, and I can say unequivocally, speaking as another homosexual, that this man is gay. No straight man I know would ever let another man choose the restaurant, even if he did save his aunt's life. If he was straight, he also would have picked some place with burgers and the game on – which, let's be serious, you care nothing about. And if he had chosen the restaurant himself, he'd probably add something like, "that cool, bro?" Straight men tend to be so reliant on colloquialisms like that.

Make him take you to Fresche. Mercedes and I and the rest of the gang are going to sit at the bar and pretend we don't know you. Puh-lease make him take you to Fresche...

Y'all have a nice time and be sure to practice safe sex, you hear?

Tim

* * *

To: Mercedes Jones

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: For the love of God

Would you please stop telling everyone who works here about my personal life? It is so humiliating! Tim from Programming just emailed me. And if Programming knows, you know it's only a matter of time before it gets down to Art. And what if somebody in Art knows Wes Montgomery, and tells him how everybody in Features is talking about him? I mean, my God, what are you trying to do?

KH

* * *

To: Dolly Vargas; Sam Evans; Tim Grabowski; Will Schuester; Jimmy Chu

From: Mercedes Jones

Subject: Kurt

All right everybody, lay off. We're just making him nervous. I really mean that, Dolly, so don't even think about another Ladies Room ambush.

Mercedes

PS Besides you know he can't keep a secret to save his life. He'll blab about where they're going eventually, and then we'll have him. ;-)

* * *

To: johnlives

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: Dinner

Dear Blaine,

Hi! It's really sweet of you to offer to take me to dinner, but you really don't have to. I was happy to do what I did for your aunt. I only wish I could have done more. But if you really insist, I honestly don't care where we go to dinner.

Well, that's not true, there is one place I really DON'T want to go, and that's Fresche. Anywhere else is fine. Why don't you surprise me? See you back on the 15th floor tonight at six (ICU visiting hours are only from six-thirty to seven)?

Kurt

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: johnlives

Subject: Dinner

You got it. I'll make reservations for 8. I hope you know what you're doing, however, letting me choose the restaurant. I am very partial to entrails, you know.

B

* * *

To: johnlives

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: I don't believe you

You're just trying to scare me. I grew up near a farm, you know. We had entrails on toast every morning for breakfast.

K

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: johnlives

Subject: Now you're

scaring me. See you at 6.

B

* * *

To: Blaine Anderson

From: Sergeant Paul Reese

Subject: Last night

Anderson-

Look, man, I can't apologize enough. I don't know what's going on between you and that guy, but I didn't mean to blow it. I was just so surprised to see you there!

I mean, Blaine Anderson, at the Animal Medical Center? What kind of crime could he be following up on? Certainly one of a fowl nature...Sorry. Couldn't resist.

Seriously, we were just there to check on Hugo, the precinct's bomb-sniffing pooch.

Some clown fed him a bunch of KFC left over from lunch, and you know what they say about dogs and chicken bones... Well, it turns out to be true. Although Hugo is expected to make a full recovery. What were you doing there, man? You looked strung out. Well, for a guy with a hot guy like that on his arm. Let me know if there's anything I can do to make up for it...Fix some parking tickets, maybe? Have his husband held without bail for the weekend. Whatever. Anything, anything to make it right again-

Paul

* * *

To: Sergeant Paul Reese

From: Blaine Anderson

Subject: All is forgiven

At least now. Last night, I could easily have throttled you.

Not that it was in any way your fault. I mean, you saw me. You said, "How's it going, Anderson?" as any normal person would. How were you to know I am currently living under an assumed name? But what started out as the most disastrous evening of all time-Who knew cats eat rubberbands? I certainly didn't. How have these animals lasted as long as they have, evolutionarily speaking? They seem to be dumb as rocks-turned out better than I ever could have imagined. So consider yourself forgiven, my friend.

And as for the guy, well, it's a long story. Maybe I'll even tell it to you someday. Depending upon how it turns out, of course. Right now, it's back to the Animal Medical Center for me. I have to bail out the cat, who has supposedly recovered nicely from his intestinal surgery. And on the way home from the animal hospital, I am going to buy that cat the biggest, smelliest fish you ever saw, as a thank you for his kind thoughtfulness in ingesting that rubberband.

Blaine

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Mercedes Jones

Subject: Well?

What did you wear? Where did you end up going? Did you have fun? WHAT HAPPENED?

Mercedes

* * *

To: Mercedes Jones

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: It happened

::What did you wear?

I wore my black Calvin Klein sweater, with my light blue popover underneath with some tight charcoal slacks and my black wingtips. Very discreet but undeniably hot. The blue definitely made my eyes pop.

::Where did you end up going?

We didn't end up going anywhere. Not for dinner, anyway.

::Did you have fun?

YES.

::WHAT HAPPENED?

It did.

Okay, well, not really, but almost. What happened was, I was just applying my final layer of lotion when there was a knock on my door. I went to answer it. It was Blaine. He actually had on a tie! A bow tie! I couldn't believe it. He looked great-only really worried. So I was all, What's wrong?

And he went, It's Tweedle-dum. Something's the matter with him. Would you mind coming to take a look? So I went and took a look, and sure enough, Tweedle-dum, who is quite the more active and affectionate of Mrs. Montgomery's two cats, was lying underneath the dining room table looking like a little kid who had eaten too many of those butter cookies. He didn't want anybody touching him, and growled when I tried to.

Anyway, I suddenly remembered something, and I went, "Oh my God, have you been removing the rubberbands from around the Chronicles when you bring them in? Because you know the Chronicle thinks so well of itself that it always come bound in a sing rubberband, to keep the sections from falling out, since its customers would freak out if one single part was missing and they happened not to get their financial news or whatever."

And Blaine went, "No. Am I supposed to?" And that's when I realized I had forgotten to tell him the most important thing about cat and dog sitting for his aunt: "Tweedle-dum eats rubberbands."

So did his brother, Tweedle-dee. Which is why Tweedle-dee is no longer with us. We've got to get this cat to the hospital right away!" I cried. Blaine looked stunned. "You're kidding, right?" "No, I'm serious." I went and got the cat carrier down from where Mrs. Montgomery has always kept it, on the top shelf of her linen closet. Wrap him in a towel. Blaine just kept standing there. "You're actually serious." "I am totally serious," I said. We have to get the rubberband removed before it perforates something.

Actually, I have no idea if a rubberband could perforate something, but you could tell just by looking at Tweedle-dum's glazed eyes that he was one sick animal. So Blaine got a towel and we bundled Tweedle-dum up (Blaine sustained several evil-looking scratches before he accomplished this) and took him to the Animal Medical Center, which is where I know Mrs. Montgomery took Tweedle-dee when he had his fatal encounter with the rubberband off a copy of the Chronicle. I know because she asked mourners to send them a donation in lieu of flowers after Tweedle-dee's demise.

The minute we walked in, they took Tweedle-dum and rushed him off to x-ray. Then there was nothing we could do but wait and pray. But it was kind of hard to sit and pray, you know, when all I could think about was how much I hate the Chronicle, and here it was, ruining my big date. At least, I thought it might have been a date. I just kept thinking about how the Chronicle is always scooping us, and how they get to have their Christmas party at the Water Club, and ours is always at Bowlmore Lanes. And how their circulation is like a hundred thousand more than ours, and how they always win all the journalism awards, and their style section is in color, and they don't even have a gossip page. Well, it just started making my laugh. I don't know why.

But I just started laughing about how once again, the Chronicle had managed to ruin something for me. Then Blaine asked me why I was laughing, and so I told him (not the part about how the Chronicle had ruined our date, but the rest of it). So then Blaine started laughing, too. I don't know why he was laughing, except, well, he doesn't exactly strike me as the praying type. He kept laughing in these little bursts. You could tell he was trying not to, but sometimes it would come out.

Meanwhile the weirdest people kept coming in, with the strangest emergencies! Like one lady was there because her golden retriever had eaten all of her Prozac. Another one was there because her iguana had taken a flying leap from her seventh story balcony (and landed seemingly unscathed on the roof of the deli below). A third lady was worried about her hedgehog, which just wasn't acting right. How, Blaine whispered to me, is a hedgehog supposed to act? It really wasn't funny. Only then we really couldn't stop laughing. And everyone was giving us these mean looks, and that just made me laugh harder. So we were sitting there, the dressiest people in the place, pretending to be comfortable in these hard plastic chairs and trying not to laugh, but doing it anyway- At least until all these cops came in. They were there to check on one of their bomb squad dogs, which had choked on a chicken bone. One of them saw Blaine and went, "Hey, Anderson, what are you doing here?" That's when Blaine stopped laughing. He got very red all of a sudden and went, "Oh, hi, Sergeant Reese." He put a very hard stress on the word Sergeant. Sergeant Reese looked quite taken aback. He started to say something, but right then the veterinarian came out and called, "Mr. Montgomery?"

Blaine jumped up and said, "That's me," and rushed up to the vet. The vet told us that Tweedle-dum had, indeed, swallowed a rubberband, and that it was tangled in his small intestine, and that surgery would be necessary, or the cat would definitely die.

They were willing to do the surgery at once, only it was very costly, $1500 dollars, plus $200 for the overnight stay at the hospital. $1700! I was shocked. But Blaine just nodded and reached for his wallet and started to pull out a credit card - and then he put it away really fast and said he forgot, all his credit cards were maxed out, and that he would just go to the bank machine and get cash.

Cash! He was going to pay in cash! $1700 in cash! For a cat! Only I reminded him that you can't get that much cash from a bank machine in a single day. I said, "Let me put it on my credit card, and you can pay me back later." (I know what you're going to say, Mercedes, but it isn't true: he would have paid me back, I know it). But he absolutely refused. And next thing I knew, he'd gone over to the cashier to arrange a payment plan, leaving me alone with the vet and all of the cops, who were still standing around staring at me. Don't ask me why. Undoubtedly my tight pants were to blame.

Then Blaine came back and said it was all taken care of, and the cops left, and the vet suggested we stay until the surgery was over, just in case there were complications, so we went back to our seats and I went, "Why did that policeman call you Anderson?" And Blaine went, "Oh, that's just how cops are, they always make up their own nicknames for people." But I definitely got the feeling there was something he wasn't telling me.

He must have realized it, too, since he told me I didn't have to stick around and wait with him, that he'd pay for a cab home for me, and that he hoped I'd take a raincheck on dinner. So I asked him if he was crazy, and he said he did not conscientiously believe so, and I said anyone with as many nicknames as he apparently has definitely has some major problems, and he agreed with me, and then we argued pleasantly for about two hours over which serial killers throughout history were the most deranged, and finally the vet came out and said Tweedle-dum was recovering and we could go home, and so we left.

It wasn't too late to get dinner by Manhattan standards-only ten o'clock-and Blaine was all for it, even though we'd missed our reservation at wherever he'd planned on taking me. But I wasn't up for battling the late-night supper crowd, and he agreed and said, Want to order Chinese again or something? And I said it would probably be a good idea to comfort Paco and Mr. Peepers, who were surely unsettled by their missing feline brother.

Plus I had read in the TV Guide that Sherlock was showing on BBC America.

So we went back to his place-or his aunt's place, I should say-and ordered moo shu pork again, and the food arrived just as the movie was starting, and so we ate it off Mrs. Montgomery's coffee table, sitting on her comfy black leather couch, on which I dropped not one but two spring rolls smothered with that orange stuff. Which was, incidentally, when he started kissing me. Seriously. I was totally apologizing for getting that sticky orange stuff all over his aunt's couch when he leaned over, stuck his knee in it, and started kissing me.

I haven't been that shocked since my creative writing tutor did almost the same thing my freshman year in college. Only there wasn't any orange duck sauce and we'd been talking about hyperbole as a writing tool, not paper towels. And let me tell you, Wes Montgomery is a way better kisser than any tutor I had ever was. I mean, he has got the kissing thing down pat. I was afraid the top of my head was going to blow off. Seriously. He's that good of a kisser.

Or maybe he isn't that good of a kisser. Maybe it's just been so long since anybody has kissed me like he meant it-you know, _really_ meant it-that I forgot what kissing is like.

Blaine kisses like he means it. _Really_ means it. Still, when he stopped kissing me, I was in such a state of head-spinning shock that all I could do was blurt out, "What did you do that for?" which probably sounded rude, but he didn't take it that way. He went, "Because I wanted to." So I thought about that for like a split second, and then I reached up and put my arms around his neck and said, "Good."

Then I did some kissing of my own. And it was really nice because Mrs. Montgomery's couch is very cushy and soft, and Blaine kind of sank down onto me and I kind of sank down into the couch, and we kissed for a _very_ long time, in fact we kissed until Paco decided he needed to go out, and stuck his big wet nose between our foreheads.

That's when I realized I better get out of there. First of all, you know what our mothers always said about kissing on the first date. And second of all, not to gross you out, but there was some very interesting stuff happening downstairs, if you know what I mean.

And Wes Montgomery is definitely NOT straight and I'm not even sure that he's bi. Straight guys do not get full-on stiffies from kissing guys and maybe he could be bi, but the speed in which he acquired said stiffy makes me think he just may be gay. I could be wrong and if he's bi that's fine, but at least I know without a doubt that I am not repulsive in any way!

So while Blaine was cursing Paco out, I was all straightening myself out and saying primly, "Well, thank you for lovely evening, but I think I have to go now," and then I tore out of there, while he was still going, "Kurt, wait, we have to talk."

I didn't wait. I couldn't. I had to get out while I still had control over my motor-functions. I am telling you, Mercedes, this guy's kisses are enough to numb your brain stem, they're that good. So what's to talk about? Well, there's one thing: Mercedes, I'm letting you know right now. I am bringing a date to your wedding.

Gotta go. Fingers are cramping up from writing too much, and I still have tomorrow's column to do. Things are looking up for Kim and Kanye. I hear a vacation in Bali is in the works. For the first time, I'm more impressed with my own romantic love life than that of Kim Kardashian. That means something, Mercedes.

KH

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Mercedes Jones

Subject: I hope at the very least

you let him pay for the Chinese food.

Mercedes

* * *

To: Mercedes Jones

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: Well of course he

paid for the Chinese food. Well, except the tip. He didn't have any singles. Why are you being this way? I had a great time. I thought it was sweet.

And it's not like I let him feel me up or anything, for God's sake. Though I wouldn't have complained if he had...

KH

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Mercedes Jones

Subject: I just think

that this is all happening too fast. I've never even met this guy. No offense, Kurt, but you do not have the greatest track record where men are concerned-Aaron being only example Number One. I mean what about that Delta Upsilon and the sock thing, which you yourself mentioned only the other day? I'm just saying I might feel more comfortable about all of this if I had actually met the guy.

We've heard some pretty sketchy things about him from Dolly, after all. How do you expect me to feel? You are like the baby brother I never had. I just want to make sure you don't get hurt. So could you get him to come over to pick you up for lunch or something one of these days? I'd be more than willing to forego spinning class...

Don't hate me.

Mercedes

* * *

To: Mercedes Jones

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: You are such

a mother hen. But yes, if you insist, I suppose I could arrange for the two of you to bump in to one another somehow. God, the things we do for our friends.

KH

* * *

To: Blaine Anderson

From: Genevieve Randolph Anderson

Subject: Your recent behavior

Dear Blaine,

This is your grandmother speaking. Or should I say writing. I suppose you will be surprised to hear from me in this manner. I have chosen this venue, the E Mail, with which to correspond to you, because you have not returned a single one of my telephone calls, and your brother Cooper assures me that while you may not check your answering machine, you actually do occasionally answer E Mail messages.

Therefore, to business: I can forgive the fact that you have chosen to throw caution to the wind and embark on your own career in a field that, frankly, no respectable Anderson-or Randolph, either, for that matter-would ever consider. You have proven to me that not all news reporters are parasitic vermin. And I can forgive the fact that you chose to move out of the building and live on your own, first in that hellhole on 37th with that lunatic, and then where you currently reside, in Brooklyn, which I'm told is the most charming of the five boroughs, aside from the occasional race riot and collapsing supermarket.

And I can even forgive you for choosing not to touch any of the money that has been held in trust for you since your grandfather's death. A man should make his own way in the world, if at all possible, and not depend upon his family for his means. I applaud your effort to do just that. It is far more than any of my other grandchildren have done. Look at your cousin Dickie. I'm certain if that boy had a vocation like you do, Blaine, he would not spend half so much time putting things up his nose that have no business being there.

But what I simply cannot forgive you for is missing the dedication the other night. You know how much my benefits mean to me. This cancer wing I've donated is particularly important to me, as you know that cancer was what took your beloved grandfather from me. I understand that you might have had a previous commitment, but you could, at least, have had the courtesy to have sent a note.

I will not lie to you, Blaine. I most particularly wanted you at this event because there is a certain young gentleman I was very anxious for you to know. I know. I know how you feel about my introducing you to my friends' eligible sons. But Victor Arbuthnot, whom I am sure you will remember from your childhood summers on the Vineyard-the Arbuthnots had that place in Chilmark-has grown into quite an attractive young man- he has even overcome that horrible chin problem that has plagued so many of the Arbuthnots. And he is, from what I understand, a real go-getter in the investment market.

Since career-minded men have always appealed to you, I made an effort to ensure Victor would be at the dedication the other night. What a fool you made me look, Blaine! I had to pawn Victor off on your second cousin Bill. And you know how I feel about him.

I know you pride yourself on being the blacksheep of the family, Blaine-though what is supposed to be so enraging about a man who works for a living, doing what it is he actually likes to do, I cannot imagine. Your cousins, with their various addictions and unsuitable pregnancies, are far more maddening.

However, this type of behavior really is quite bewildering, even for you. All I can say is that I hope you have a very good explanation. Furthermore, I hope you will take the time to respond to this letter. It is very rude of you not to have returned my calls.

Yours, in spite of that,

Mim

* * *

To: Genevieve Randolph Anderson

From: Blaine Anderson

Subject: Forgive me?

Mim-

What can I say? You have made me thoroughly ashamed of myself. It was unconscionable of me not to return your calls. My only explanation is that I have not been checking my answering machine as assiduously as I used to, due to the fact that recently, I have been staying in the apartment of a friend. Well, not my friend, really-my friend's aunt, to be exact, who has been hospitalized, and needed someone to care for her pets.

Although after what happened to one of her cats recently, I am not convinced I am the person most suited for the job. However, that's not important. What's important is that you know that I did not fail to attend the dedication out of any sort of disdain for you or for the event. I just had something else to do. Something very important.

Which reminds me: Vick Arbuthnot better not be holding his breath waiting for me, Mim. I've actually met someone. And no, it isn't anyone you know, unless you are familiar with the Hummels of Lima, Ohio. Which I sincerely hope you are not.

I know. I know. After the Heath debacle, you'd given up on me for good. Well, it takes a lot more to keep a man like me down than finding out a guy I hadn't proposed to had already registered at Bloomingdales as the future Mr. Heath Spencer-Anderson (and for $1000 sheets, no less).

But before you start clamoring to meet him, allow me to work out a few slight...kinks. No romantic relationship in New York City is ever simple, but this one is even more complicated than most. I am confident, however, that I can work it out. I have to work it out.

I just don't have the slightest idea how I'm going to manage it. Anyway, with many loving apologies, I hope you'll still consider me sincerely

Your Blaine

PS To make it up to you, I'll be at the Lincoln Center Benefit to Raise Cancer Awareness next week, since I know you're its biggest supporter. I'll even crack into the old trust fund and write a check with a guaranteed four zeroes. Will that help soothe your ruffled feathers?

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Burt and Carole Hummel

Subject: Look Out!

Hi, honey, it's Carole again, writing you on the email. I hope you are being careful because I saw last night on Tom Brokaw that another one of those awful sinkholes have opened up in Manhattan. This one is right in front of a newspaper, no less!

Don't worry, though, it is that newspaper you hate, the snooty one. Still, think about it, that could have been you sitting in that taxi that fell into that twenty foot deep hole! Except I know you never take taxis because you spend all your money on clothes. But that poor lady! Why, it took three firemen to pull her out (you are so slim, it would only take one fireman to pull you out of any sinkhole, I would think).

Anyway, I just wanted to say BE CAREFUL! Be sure to look down everywhere you go- -but look up, too, since I heard people's air conditioners sometimes go flying out of their windows if they are not fastened securely, and can go crashing down onto the pedestrians below. That city is so fraught with peril. Why can't you come home and work for the Duane County Register? I saw Mabel Flemming the other day at the Buy and Bag and she said she'd absolutely hire you as their Arts and Entertainment writer.

Think about it, would you? There's nothing the least bit dangerous in Lima-no sinkholes or falling air conditioners or transvestite killers. Just that man who shot up all the customers at the feed store that time, but that was years ago.

Love,

Carole

PS You'll never guess what! One of your friend's ex-boyfriends got married! To a girl, but he still got married! I've attached the announcement for you to see.

Attachment:

Photo of total goober and a girl with very big hair

Crystal Hope LeBeau and Jeremy "Jer" Vaughn, both of Lima, were married at the Lima Church of Christ last Saturday. Parents of the bride are Brandi Jo and Dwight LeBeau of Lima, owners of Buckeye Liquors on Main Street in downtown Lima. Parents of the groom are Joan and Roger Vaughn. Joan Vaughn is a homemaker. Roger Vaughn is employed by Smith Auto.

A reception was held at the Lima Masonic Lodge, of which Mr. LeBeau is a member. The bride, 22, is a graduate of McKinley High School and is currently employed at the Beauty Barn. The groom, 29, is a graduate of Lima High School and is employed by Buckeye Liquors. After a honeymoon in Maui, the couple will reside in Lima.

* * *

To: Will Schuester

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: Office morale

Dear Will,

In an attempt to raise the morale around here, which I am sure you will agree with me is- to coin a phrase you frequently employ-piss-poor, may I suggest that in lieu of a staff meeting this week, we all take a stroll over to 53rd and Madison in order to admire the gigantic sinkhole which has opened up in front of the office building housing our foe and main competitor, The New York Chronicle?

I am sure you will agree with me that this will constitute a refreshing change from the normal routine of listening to people complain about the how the local Krispy Kreme shut down and how we haven't been able to get decent doughnuts at our staff meetings ever since. Plus, seeing as how all the water to the building in which the Chronicle is housed has been shut off, we will have the fun of seeing our esteemed colleagues running into the Starbucks across the street to use their facilities.

Please give this matter the full consideration it so richly deserves.

Sincerely,

Kurt Hummel

Page Ten Correspondent

The New York Journal

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Will Schuester

Subject: Office morale

Are you high?

Everyone knows you only want to look at the sinkhole because you love a good disaster.

Get back to work, Hummel. I don't pay you for your looks.

WS

* * *

To: Mercedes Jones

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: A big giant hole in the ground

Come on. How can you resist? If you go with me to look at it, I won't make you go to spinning class today...

KH

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Mercedes Jones

Subject: The big giant hole where your brain should be

You are insane. It is like a hundred degrees out. I am not spending my precious lunch hour going to look at a giant hole in the ground, even if it is in front of the Chronicle.

Ask Tim. He'll go with you. He'll go anywhere men in uniform are gathered in large clusters.

Mercedes

* * *

To: Mercedes Jones

From: Tim Grabowski

Subject: I met him!

You lazy thing, you. If you'd gotten off your arse and come with us, you would have, as I did, met this fellow that our little Mister Hummel has been yakking non-stop about all month.

But I suppose some of us think we're simply too good for sinkholes.

Tim

* * *

To: Tim Grabowski

From: Mercedes Jones

Subject: YOU MET HIM?

Spill it, you little weasel.

* * *

To: Mercedes Jones

From: Tim Grabowski

Subject: What will you give me?

You fiery-spirited wench, you.

Tim

* * *

To: Tim Grabowksi

From: Mercedes Jones

Subject: I have to review the

new Bobby de Niro place, and I'll take you with me if you tell me all about meeting Wes Montgomery. PUHlease tell me. I'm begging you.

Mercedes

* * *

To: Mercedes Jones

From: Tim Grabowski

Subject: Twist my arm

Okay, I'll tell you. Only I want to go to Bobby's new place for dinner, not lunch. That's when all the cute investment bankers will be there. All righty, then.

Picture it, if you will:

The scene-53rd and Madison. A forty by twenty foot hole has opened up in the middle of the street. Surrounding this hole are police barricades, orange caution cones, bulldozers, cement mixers, Con Edison trucks, a crane, television news reporters, about a hundred cops, and twenty of the hottest construction workers this little computer programmer has ever seen. The noise of the jack hammers and honking of horns by unsuspecting commuters, who did not listen to the 1010 WINS traffic report before they left Jersey, is deafening. The heat is oppressive. And the smell, my dear-well, I don't know what those Con Ed boys are doing at the bottom of that hole, but let me tell you, I strongly suspect they hit the wrong pipe. It was as if a proverbial hellhole had opened up, right before that bastion of all that is evil, the illustrious New York Chronicle, and attempted to suck it back down to its creator, Mr. Satan himself.

And then, through it all, I saw on the face of our Mister Hummel-who is, as I am sure you can guess, already giddy with joy at the spectacle before us-a look of such delight that I thought at first a Mr. Softee truck had appeared, and was handing out free chocolate dipped cones. Then, following the direction of his dazzled gaze, I saw what it was that had brought that beatific look to his face:

An Apollo. I am not exaggerating. An absolutely perfect specimen of manly beauty. He was standing behind one of the barricades, gazing into the hole, looking as if he'd just stepped off the pages of a J Crew catalog in his chinos and soft denim work shirt. The humid wind tugged softly at his brown hair, and I swear to you, Mercedes, if one of those construction workers had handed him a shovel, it wouldn't have looked the least bit out of place in those big hands of his. Which is a lot more than I can say for my boyfriend.

But to return to our scene:

Our Mister Hummel (screaming to be heard over the pounding of the jackhammers): "Blaine! Blaine! Over here!" Apollo turns. He sees us. He turns a deep but nevertheless completely attractive shade of umber. I follow our little Kurtsie, picking his way through the police officers and outraged Chronicle employees, who, wearing their press passes, have descended upon the poor souls from the Mayor's office and are demanding to know when their private bidets- don't try to tell me they don't have them up in those gold-lined halls they work in- are going to be flowing again.

Upon reaching the godlike creature he calls Blaine, for reasons which are still a mystery to me, our Kurtsie goes on in his usual breathless manner: "What are you doing here? Did you come to take pictures of the giant hole?"

Wes Montgomery: Um. Yes.

Kurtsie: Where's your camera?

Wes Montgomery: Oh. Um. I forgot it.

Hmmm. Lights may be on, but no one seems to be home. At least until-

Wes Montgomery: Actually, I already got the shot I need. I was just out here because...well, you know I love a disaster.

Kurtsie: Do I! Here, meet my friend Tim.

Friend Tim shakes hands with Perfect Specimen of Mankind. Will never wash right hand again.

Wes Montgomery: Hi. Nice to meet you.

Friend Tim: Likewise, I'm sure.

Kurtsie: Listen, I'm glad I ran into you. He then proceeds to throw all known dating protocol to the wind by saying: All my friends want to check you out, so do you think you could show up tomorrow night at Fresche on 10th Street around nine o'clock? Just a bunch of people from the paper, don't be alarmed.

I know! I was horrified as well! I mean, what could he have been thinking ? You simply do not go around admitting things like that to prospective inamoratos. What happened to subtlety? To boldly blurt the truth like that...well, I'll tell you: I was appalled. It just goes to show, you can take the man out of the Midwest, but you can't take the Midwest out of the man. Mr. Montgomery, I could tell, was every bit as shocked as I was. He went almost as white as he'd been red a minute before.

Wes Montgomery: Um. Okay.

Kurtsie: Great. See you then.

Wes Montgomery: Sure thing.

Exit our Kurtsie. Exit Friend Tim. When I glanced over my shoulder, Wes Montgomery had disappeared-a remarkable feat, considering that there was nowhere on that side of the hole for him to go except into the Chronicle building. But he can't have gone in there. His soul would have been ripped instantly from his body while demons sucked out his life force.

Anyway, that's all. I fully expect to see you at Fresche tonight at nine. And don't be late. What's the appropriate cocktail to order for something like this? I know! Let's consult Dolly. She always knows just the right drink to go with the occasion. Ta for now.

Tim

* * *

To: Dolly Vargas; Will Schuester; Stella Markowitz; Jimmy Chu; Alvin Webb; Elizabeth Strang; Angie So

From: Mercedes Jones

Subject: Kurt

All right, you guys. You've heard the hype. Now let's see if he lives up to it. The place is Fresche. The time is nine o'clock. Be there, or tomorrow at the water cooler you won't know what the rest of us are talking about.

Mercedes

* * *

To: Wes Montgomery

From: Blaine Anderson

Subject: The NY Journal

All right, tell me, and tell me quick: Who do you know from the NY Journal ? I want names, Montgomery. I want a list of names, and I want it NOW.

* * *

To: Blaine Anderson

From: Wes Montgomery

Subject: The NY Journal

So, you're stooping to speak to me again, I see. Not so high and mighty now, are you? I thought I'd mortally offended you with my thoughtfully crafted precepts on dating.

I knew you'd come crawling back. So what is this you want to know? Do I know anyone at the NY Journal ? What are you, nuts? You're the only journalist I hang out with. I can't stand those pseudo-intellectual phonies. Think they're so great just because they string a few words together to form a sentence. Why do you want to know anyway?

Hey, Anderson, you aren't actually going out in public pretending to be me, are you? I mean, you're just doing the whole impersonation within my aunt's building, right? With that dude who was so mad about having to walk the dog.

Right? RIGHT?

* * *

To: Blaine Anderson

From: Wes Montgomery

Subject: The NY Journal

Wait, I forgot. I do know this one babe. Dolly something. I think she's with the Journal. You're not meeting her, are you?

* * *

To: Blaine Anderson

From: Genevieve Randolph Anderson

Subject: Mister Hummel

Dearest Blaine,

Well, well, well. A gossip columnist, no less. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. I was thinking at worst he'd turn out to be a grad student. You know, one of those horrid long-haired men you see sometimes in Central Park, reading Proust on a park bench with the sandals and the glasses and the backpacks. But a gossip columnist? Now really, Blaine.

What can you be thinking? Did you think I wouldn't find out? How foolish! It was easy. A simple phone call to the Hummels of Lima, Ohio. I pretended I was one of those family-tree tracers. You know, a Hummel from way back when the Mayflower landed. Oh, they were just so eager to tell me all about the mechanic's shop and the woman of the house as a humble nurse and their precious little Kurt, who's moved to the big city, dontcha know. And not just any big city, either, but the biggest one in the whole world, _Noo_ York City.

And I know that your mother's side of the family lived in Ohio, but it was Westerville where I know it was at least civilized and didn't reek too harshly of bad fake Italian chain restaurants or endless wing-and-beer places like some pokey college town. This Lima seems dreadful.

Honestly, Blaine. Well, you'd better bring him around so we can all get a look at him. Next week would be fine. After the benefit, though, Blaine. I am really quite solidly booked until then.

All my love,

Mim

* * *

To: johnlives

From: Cooper Anderson

Subject: Mim

Just a head's up to let you know Mim's on the warpath about you missing the dedication. Plus, although I don't know this for certain, she seems to have found out about the guy. Don't look at me. I didn't tell her. I still think you're out of your mind to have agreed to this thing in the first place. Stacy, on the other hand, wants to know whether or not you took her advice.

Cooper

PS Saw on the news about the sinkhole in front of your office building. My sympathies on the whole toilet situation.

PPS I'm sorry I called you a psychotic freak. Even though you are one.

PPSS Forgot to tell you: Because of all this, Stacy has gotten her own email account. She got tired of sharing mine. Her new address is IH8BARNEY with Freemail.

* * *

To: Cooper Anderson

From: Blaine Anderson

Subject: You can call me...

anything you want. I don't mind. And don't worry about Mim. I don't mind about that either.

And I kind of like that sinkhole. I have a genuine affection for it. In fact, I'll be sad when they finally fill it in. Oops, there's just been a triple stabbing in Inwood. Gotta go.

Blaine

* * *

To: Stacy Anderson

From: Cooper Anderson

Subject: Blaine

Stace-

Something is wrong with Blaine. I called him a psychotic freak last week, and he doesn't even care. Plus I warned him about Mim, and he said he doesn't care about that either!

He doesn't even care about the sinkhole and the fact that there are no working toilets in his office building. This happened to my second cousin Bill that time he swallowed the worm at the bottom of a bottle of tequila down in Mexico. He had to spend a month in a rehab!

What should we do?

Coop

* * *

To: Cooper Anderson

From: Stacy Anderson IH8BARNEY

Subject: Blaine

Cooper-

Before you have your poor brother hauled off to Bellevue, let me see if I can get anything out of him. He might be more willing to open up to me, seeing as how I don't go around calling him names.

Kisses,

Stacy

* * *

To: Blaine Anderson

From: Stacy Anderson

Subject: You took my advice, didn't you?

Don't deny it. You called him. So spill.

And don't leave anything out. I am thirty-four years old, which puts me, as a woman, at my sexual peak. I am also so pregnant I haven't seen my own feet in weeks. The only way I can have sex is vicariously. So start tapping on that keyboard, monkey boy.

Stacy

* * *

To: Stacy Anderson

From: Blaine Anderson

Subject: Monkey boy responds

You sure do talk racy for a full-time housewife and mother of two and a half. Do the other mommies on the PTA have their minds in the gutter, too? That must make for some interesting bake sales. For your information, what you are assuming has happened has not.

And if things continue in the manner they have been, it never will, either.

I don't know what it is about this guy. I know I am not the most debonair of men. I don't think anyone who has ever met me would classify me as a playboy. But nor have I ever been accused of being a complete imbecile. And yet when I'm around Kurt, that's exactly how I end up looking-probably out of divine punishment for the fact that since I met him, I've done pretty much nothing but lie to him. Whatever it is, I cannot seem to pull off something as simple as dinner between the two of us. As you know, my first attempt ended with us eating pizza standing up (and him paying for his own slice).

My second attempt was even worse: we spent most of the evening in an animal hospital. And then I very suavely added insult to injury by sexually harassing him on Wes Montgomery's aunt's couch. He fled, in romance-novel vernacular, like a startled fawn. As well he should have: I'm sure I must have seemed like a teenager in post-prom heat.

Is this satisfying your wish to live vicariously through my romantic adventures, Stacy? Are those toes you haven't seen in so long curling with excitement?

I almost broke down and told him after the couch incident. I wish to God now that I had. Things have only gone from bad to worse. Because every day that I don't tell him is just another day he's going to hate me for when he finally figures it out.

And he will figure it out. I mean, one of these days, my luck is going to run out, and someone who knows Wes Montgomery is going to tell him I'm not him, and he's not going to understand when I try to explain, because it's all so utterly Animal House, and he's going to hate me, and my life is going to be over. Because for some unfathomable reason, instead of reviling me, like any man in his right mind would, Kurt seems actually to like me.

I cannot for the life of me figure out why. I mean, you would think that, considering what he knows of me-or Wes Montgomery, I should say-he'd hate my guts. But no. On the contrary: Kurt laughs at my inane jokes. Kurt listens to my asinine stories. And he apparently talks about me to his friends and colleagues, because a group of them demanded to meet me.

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, Why on earth did he go? And I can't tell you why I went. When he asked me about it, it was in front of my office building, where he seemed to appear as if from nowhere. I was so shocked to see him—so scared someone was going to call me by my name-that I think I froze, even though it was about a hundred degrees outside. The sun was shining, and there was noise and confusion everywhere, and suddenly, he was just there, with his hair shining all around his head like a halo, and his big blue eyes blinking up at me. I think I would have said yes if he'd asked me to eat glass out of the palm of his hand. And then there was nothing I could do about it. I mean, I had already said yes. I couldn't cancel on him. So I ran around in a panic, trying to figure out if Wes knew anybody at the Journal. And I was actually relieved when he said he didn't. Relieved! As if I was ever going to be able to pull this off in the first place.

So I went and I met them and they were suspicious but for Kurt they pretended not to be, since he is clearly someone they adore. By the end of the evening, we were all the best of friends. But only because the one woman who actually knows Wes didn't show up.

I didn't find that out, of course, until I got there, and Kurt said, Oh, Dolly Vargas—you know Dolly-she couldn't make it, on account of how she's got ballet tickets tonight. But she says hi. See? See how close I came? It's only a matter of time. So what do I do? If I tell him, he'll hate me, and I'll never see him again. If I don't tell him, eventually he'll find out, and then he'll hate me, and I'll never see him again.

After his friends had left, Kurt proposed we walk a bit before catching a cab back to our building. We walked along Tenth Street, which, if you'll remember from before you and Cooper fled for the suburbs, is a shady residential street, filled with old brownstones, the front windows of which are always lit up at night, so you can see the people inside, reading or watching TV or doing whatever it is people do in their homes after dark. And as we walked, he took my hand, and we just strolled along like that, and as we strolled, I was struck by this horrible realization: that never in my life had I walked along the street holding a guy's hand and felt like I did then...which was happy.

And that's because every other time a guy has grabbed my hand, it's been to drag me towards a store window so he could point to something he wanted me to buy him. Every other time. I know it sounds horrible, like I'm feeling sorry for myself, or whatever, but I'm not. I'm just telling you the truth. That's actually the horrible part, Stace. That it's true. And now I'm supposed to tell him? Tell him who I am?

I don't think I can. Could you?

Blaine

* * *

To: Cooper Anderson

From: Stacy Anderson

Subject: Blaine

There's nothing wrong with your brother, silly. He's in love, that's all.

Stacy

PS We're out of Cheerios. Can you pick up a box on the way home tonight?

* * *

To: Stacy Anderson

From: Cooper Anderson

Subject: My brother

Blaine? In love? With whom? The guy? BUT HE DOESN'T EVEN KNOW HIS REAL NAME!

And this is all right with you? Has everyone in this family gone completely mental?

Cooper

* * *

To: Mercedes Jones

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: Tell me again

Come on. Just one more time.

KH

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Mercedes Jones

Subject: No

I will not.

Mercedes

* * *

To: Mercedes Jones

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: Come on

Tell me. You know you want to. You OWE it to me.

KH

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Mercedes Jones

Subject: God, you are a weirdo

And you are really starting to annoy me. But all right, I'll tell you. But this is the last time, all right? Okay. Here we go. You are right. Wes Montgomery or "Blaine" or whatever he wants to go by is very nice. We were all wrong about him. I apologize. I owe you a Frappacino. Satisfied?

Mercedes

* * *

To: Mercedes Jones

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: A grande

With skim milk. Don't forget.

KH

PS Don't you just love the way the skin at the corners of his eyes all crinkles up when he smiles? Like a young Robert Redford?

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Mercedes Jones

Subject: Now you're just

making me sick. Seriously, was I like this when I first started seeing Sam? Because if I was, I fully don't understand why none of you shot me. Because this is nauseating. It really is.

You've got to stop.

Mercedes

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Aaron Spender

Subject: Wes Montgomery

Yes, I know. I heard everyone talking about it by the water cooler. Apparently, Fresche was quite the place to be the other night. Don't worry-I'm not upset that I wasn't invited. I quite understand why you mightn't have wanted me there. And you needn't worry that I am writing to you now with the intention of trying to win you back. I realize-at last-that you have found someone else. I am just writing to say how glad I am for you. Your happiness is all I have ever wished for. And if you love him, well, then that's all I need to hear. Because for you to love someone, Kurt, I know he would have to be a truly worthy, truly noble individual.

A man who shows you the kind of respect you deserve. A man who won't ever let you down. I just want you to know, Kurt, that I would have done just about anything in the world to have been that man for you. I really mean that. If it hadn't been for Adam- But now is not the time or place for what-would-have- been's.

Just know that I am thinking of you, and am pleased to see you looking so radiant with happiness. You deserve it, more than anyone else I have ever known.

Aaron

* * *

To: Aaron Spender

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: Wes Montgomery

Thanks, Aaron. That was a very sweet message, and it meant a lot to me.

KH

PS I'm sorry to have to bring this up, but I know it was you who took the Xena Warrior Princess action figure off the top of my computer. The new fax guy saw you do it, Aaron. I want her back. I don't want to know what you did with her. I just want her back. OK?

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Dolly Vargas

Subject: Your new beau

It is so like you, darling, to show off your shiny new bauble on the one night I couldn't make it to the unveiling. It isn't fair. When is he going to come by and take you to lunch, or something, so I can say hello? It's been so long, I can hardly remember what he looks like. Maybe I should just pop over to the Whitney for a little refresher.

XXXOOO

Dolly

* * *

To: Mercedes Jones

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: Nude photo

OH MY GOD!

I forgot all about that self-portrait of Wes Montgomery that is supposedly hanging in the Whitney! The one of him nude! WHAT DO I DO? I mean, I can't go LOOK at it, can I?

That is so sleazy!

Kurt

PS Just thinking about it is giving me a headache.

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Mercedes Jones

Subject: Oh, please

Of course you can go look at it. Which is sleazier, you looking at it, or him taking it and letting them hang it up for everyone in the world to see? But whatever. Get your wallet and follow me. We'll forego spinning for a bit of culture, courtesy of the Whitney Museum of Modern Art.

Mercedes

PS Your headache is from the Frappacino. They do that to me, too.

* * *

To: Stacy Anderson

From: Blaine Anderson

Subject: I need your

recipe for crab-stuffed flounder. I have decided that since every time I try to take him out, it is a complete disaster, I will simply cook a meal for him instead in the privacy of my own home. Or Wes Montgomery's aunt's home, as the case may be. Who knows, maybe I'll even work up the nerve to tell him the truth about me. Probably not, though.

Also, how do you make those little bread thingies with the tomatoes on top?

Blaine

* * *

To: Blaine Anderson

From: Stacy Anderson

Subject: By bread thingies

I can only assume you mean bruschetta. You toast baguette rounds, then rub the toasted slices with garlic. Then you cut up a bunch of tomatoes and you-

Oh, for God's sake, Blaine, just call Zabar's and order it, like a normal person. Then you pretend you made it yourself. You think I can cook? Ha! My roast chicken? Kenny Rogers. My crab-stuffed flounder? Jefferson Market. My hand cut fries? Frozen from a bag!

Now you know. Don't tell Cooper. It will spoil the magic.

Stacy


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: It should be noted here, again, that this does not follow Glee plot at times, which will become obvious why as you read this chapter. Hope you all are enjoying! Please favorite, review and share!_

_Also, major thanks to my girl **kellyb321** for recommending this fic! She is the BEST, so welcome to all you Crowded House readers (and if you aren't reading her Crowded House fic, you're missing out)!_

* * *

To: Dolly Vargas

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: Wes Montgomery

Dear Dolly,

Laugh all you want. I don't happen to think it's amusing.

I cannot say I think his parents were particularly responsible, either, giving a five year old a camera and then letting him play with it in the bathtub. He could have been electrocuted, or something. Besides, that photo doesn't even look anything like him. He's slightly Asian but he looks for more than only half Asian in that photo.

Kurt

PS I blame YOU for the fact that I am clearly getting a cold. You caused me all that anxiety and made me susceptible to this stupid flu bug that is going around.

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Dolly Vargas

Subject: Oh, pooh

You know how much I love to tease you. You're like the little mentally retarded brother I never had. Just kidding, darling, just kidding. Besides, instead of railing against me, you should feel sorry for me. I'm hopelessly in love with your Aaron, and he'll hardly give me the time of day. He just sits in his little cubicle and looks at the screen saver he's had made from a photo of the two of you. It's so pathetic, it almost makes me want to cry.

Except that ever since I had my lids done, I've been physically incapable of tears. It isn't easy, you know, playing the ugly stepsister to your Cinderella, Kurt. You think I'm going to let you get that prince without a fight? Not hardly.

By the way, what's with that shirt you have on? It makes you look poochy.

XXXOOO

Dolly

PS Could you stop coughing so loud? It's aggravating my hangover.

* * *

To: Will Schuester

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: My health

Dear Will,

I am writing this from home to let you know I will not be in today due to the fact that I have woken up with a sore throat, fever, and runny nose. I left the pages on your desk last night, and there's plenty for Ronnie to use for tomorrow. Tell her it's all in the green file folder on my desk.

If you have any questions, you know where to find me.

KH

PS PLEASE tell Harmony Fuller down in Human Resources that the reason I haven't logged on today is because I'm out sick! She counted my last sick day as a tardy and it went in my permanent personnel file!

PPS Can you make sure my Xena Warrior Princess action figure is back on my computer monitor? Somebody took it, but he's supposed to put it back. Just let me know whether or not he has.

* * *

To: Burt and Carole Hummel

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: My Last Will and Testament

Hi. I'm writing to let you know that I have a terrible cold and that I'm probably going to die. If I do, I want you to know that I'm leaving you and Dad all the money in my 401K. Please use it to make sure my cousins go to college. I know they probably won't want to go to college, seeing as how they both plan on playing for NBA when they grow up, but just in case professional sports doesn't pan out, they should be able to get at least a semester or two out of my $24,324.57.

Please give all my clothes to Chris Hope, Jeri's new husband. He looks like he could use them.

I don't know what you should do with my Madame Alexander doll collection. Maybe someone related to us will have a girl, and you can give them to her. My only other worldly possessions are my books. Would please see that in the event of my demise, they all go to my next door neighbor's nephew, Blaine? Actually, his real name is Wes. You would like him, Dad. All the people from my office met him, and they like him. He is very funny and sweet.

And no, Dad, we are not sleeping together.

Don't ask me why not, though, Carole. I mean, don't let Dad read this part, but I'm starting to wonder if there's something the matter with me. Besides the fact that I have this cold, I mean. Because Blaine and I only made out this one time, and since then, nothing, nada, zippo.

Maybe I'm a really bad kisser. That's probably it. That's probably why every guy I've gone out with from Jer on has ended up dumping me. I'm a lousy kisser. I have an impossibly small bladder, I have fluffy hair, and I'm a bad kisser.

Let's just face facts: When I was born, did the doctor ever mention the words genetic mutation? Did he ever mention...oh, I don't know. The term biological sport?

Because that's what I think I am. Oh, I know: cousin Robbie turned out all right. I guess he doesn't lack the kissing chromosome I evidently do. Either that or cousin Kelly's just a bad kisser too, and couldn't tell the difference. I don't suppose-AHHHH! Someone's at the door!

It's Blaine! And I look horrible! I gotta go-

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Burt and Carole Hummel

Subject: Your last silly email

Kurt Elizabeth Hummel!

What on earth was that last email from you all about? You have a little cold. You aren't dying. Your dolls are staying exactly where they are, in their display case in your bedroom, along with your tiara collection and McKinley High School diploma.

And what's this about a boy not thinking you're a good kisser? Well, if that's what he thinks, then you tell him he can just go jump in a lake. I'm sure you are very good kisser.

Don't you worry, Kurt, there are lots of fish in the sea. You just throw that one back. Your ship will come in. You are much handsomer than all those guys I see on the TV. So you just tell that boy to bug off, and then you snuggle up in bed and watching that model show you always TiVo and drink plenty of fluids and especially chicken noodle soup.

You'll be better in no time. And even though I shouldn't tell you this-I wanted it to be a surprise—Carole's sending you a little something that should cheer you right up. All right, it's a batch of snickerdoodles, your favorite cookies.

Now quit overreacting and hunker down. You'll be fine.

Dad

* * *

To: Mercedes Jones

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: Thank you

Thank you thank you thank you! Blaine told me that he called and that you told him I was home sick. So you know what he did next? Really, I don't want to make you nauseated, but I'm dying to tell someone, so

I've selected you as my victim:

He went to the Second Avenue Deli and got me chicken soup! Really! A whole big thing of it! And then he stopped by with the soup, orange juice, a DVD, and ice cream (plain vanilla, but then, I don't think he knows any better. You're right, you do have to train them sometimes). And even though I must have looked totally awful (I had on my leopard print pajamas and my oldest, most comfortable house shoes, and you should have seen my hair, hoo boy) when I asked him if he wanted to stay and watch the movie with me (Rear Window -I know what you're thinking, Mercedes, but I am sure he has absolutely no idea that I have been spying on him. Besides, I have always politely averted my gaze when it came to watching him undress. Well, except that once, but that was just to settle that all-important boxers-or-briefs question), he said yes!

So I turned the TV around on its little cart so we could watch it from the couch, but he said I should be in bed (which it was pretty clear I'd abandoned in order to answer the door-I hadn't bothered making it, or anything, and you should see the ocean of wadded up Kleenex all around it) and then he made me get back in it, and turned the TV around again so it faced the bed.

Then he went into the kitchen-which made me pretty embarrassed...you should have seen all the dishes in my sink-and when he came back out again he had the soup and this big glass of juice on that tray I bought that one time at Pier 1, remember? Only I'd only used it to hold my laptop over the bathtub, like the lady on those commercials, that time I got the wicked sunburn at Jones Beach, and Will was so mean and made me work from home. Mercedes, it was so nice! He lay down on the other side of the bed (not under the covers, though, on top of them) and we watched the movie and I ate my soup and when I was through he broke out the ice cream, and we ate it right out of the container with spoons, and then when the scary part happened, we forgot all about it and it melted some all over my sheets, which are sticky now, but who cares? Okay, I care, but I couldn't at the moment because I was just squealing on the inside because of Blaine's proximity and his presence in my bed... even if it wasn't in a lascivious manner.

Then when the movie was over I turned it to the Weather Channel, and there was live coverage from Hurricane Jan, which has been decimating the coast of Trinidad! So we watched that for a while, and then I don't know what happened, I must have had too much Sudafed, but the next thing I knew, he was saying good night and that he'd see me tomorrow, and when I woke up again he was gone, and it was night, and he had done all the dishes. Not just the dishes from the soup and juice and stuff. ALL the dishes that had been in my sink were washed and sitting in the drying rack.

For a minute I totally thought I was hallucinating, but this morning they were still there. Mercedes, he did my dishes while I was unconscious, and probably snoring, due to my massive nasal congestion. Isn't that the sweetest thing you've ever heard? I mean EVER? I've never had a man do my dishes before. Well, that's all. I just wanted to brag. I still feel like total crud, though, so I don't know when I'll be back at work.

Is Xena where she's supposed to be? What do you think he did with her? God, I am so glad we broke up. What a WEIRDO!

KH

PS Just because I'm sick is no reason for you to skip spinning.

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Mercedes Jones

Subject: Well?

Which was it, boxers or briefs? Don't leave me in suspense here, Hummel.

Mercedes ;-)

* * *

To: Mercedes Jones

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: Duh

Boxer briefs. Black.

KH ;-)

* * *

To: Will Schuester

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: My health

Dear Will,

I am still sick. I won't be coming in today, and probably not tomorrow, either. Don't get mad, Will. I know this is a busy time, what with all the parties out in the Hamptons, but what am I supposed to do? I took advantage of my fabulous healthcare package yesterday, and went to a doctor. You know what he prescribed? Bed rest and fluids. Bed rest and fluids, Will! I won't be able to get that in the Hamptons. I mean, Dolly could, of course, but not me. Besides, I'm sure the doctor didn't mean those kind of fluids. Tell Ronnie that I don't believe that thing about Kim and Kanye in Cannes, and that she had better check with their publicists before she runs it.

KH

PS Don't forget to tell Harmony Fuller that I'm out sick again, not late.

PPS Is my Xena Warrior Princess action figure back?

* * *

To: Mercedes Jones

From: Sam Evans foodie

Subject: Kurt

What are you, online again? I've been trying to get through to you for like an hour. And I KNOW you aren't talking to Kurt, because I was just there.

And I wasn't the only one who was there, either. One guess as to who opened the door when I knocked: Yep, you're right, Mr. Perfect himself.

Actually, I shouldn't call him that. I kind of like the guy. He's like normal, you know? Not like that freak Spender. Remember when you and me and Kurt and Spender went out that one time, and he went off on cops? Man, that burned me. I shut him up pretty quick, didn't I, when I told him four of my cousins were with the NYPD? At least this new guy doesn't talk crap like Spender used to.

Anyway, so I delivered the stuff, like you wanted, and Blaine answered the door, and at first I was pretty embarrassed, let me tell you. I thought I'd like interrupted some kind of sex thing, you know. But the guy had his clothes on, and he was like, Come on in. And there was Kurt, in these weird pajamas and he was in bed, but he didn't look very sick, if you ask me. They were watching a movie. Apparently, since he's been sick, they've been doing this quite a lot.

He brings over some food-nothing, I must say, up to my standards, but edible, anyway- and they watch movies. I don't know. Does that make it serious? There was no hanky panky, as far as I could tell. I mean, there was tons of Kleenex on the floor, but I'm pretty sure that was from Kurt's runny nose, and not, you know, anything else.

Hey, don't get mad at me. I'm just the messenger here. So I was like, Here's the stuff from work, plus I made you a peach cobbler, and of course Kurt totally freaked, because like any decent gourmand, he recognizes that my peach cobbler is a gift from the gods, and he insisted we all have some, and so Blaine took it and dished it out, and I sort of got the impression he knew his way around Kurt's kitchen, which is saying something, because you know he has a very particular sense of order in his kitchen and never lets anyone touch it – not even me, the chef! Anyway, he put these big globs of vanilla ice cream on it, which as you know, sullies the purity of the cobbler's texture. But whatever. We all sat on the bed and ate it, and I have to admit, even if I do say so myself, it was the best peach cobbler ever created, in spite of the ice cream.

So I tried watching the movie for a while because Kurt said stay, but I could tell even though he said stay, Blaine was like, When is he going to leave? in a major way, so I said I had to get back to work, and Kurt said thanks and that he was feeling better and would be back to work on Monday, and I was all, Okay, and Blaine walked me to the door and was like, Nice seeing you again, good bye and practically shut it in my face. I guess I can't blame him. I was the same way when you and I first started going out. Except I never would have let you see me in my pajamas like that.

Well, in spite of the pajamas, I'm telling you, the guy's got it bad. Way worse than Spender ever did. And I suppose that, as usual, Kurt has no idea, has he? Don't you think somebody ought to tell him?

Sam

* * *

To: Sam Evans

From: Mercedes Jones

Subject: Kurt

Now who isn't picking up his phone? I assume you're out front, dazzling the customers with your salmon tartar on endive. Anyway, thanks for taking that stuff to Kurt. So Blaine was there again, huh? He was over last night, too. I think you're right: he has got it bad. But then, so does Kurt.

God, I wish they would just DO IT and get it over with. And no, I do not think either of them need our help. No one helped us, did they? And we turned out all right.

You didn't tell Kurt I skipped spinning, did you?

Mercedes

PS There's only one person's pajamas needs that you should be concerning yourself with, mister, and those are mine. What Kurt Hummel wears to bed is his business. And I bought him those pajamas. I think they're cute.

* * *

To: Burt and Carole Hummel

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: Snickerdoodles

Dear Carole (and Dad),

Thank you so much for the cookies! They are delicious-at least, if I could taste anything, I'm sure they would be. I want you to know I am feeling much better-not better enough to go to work, of course, but better. I still sound bad enough that when I call my boss to say I won't be in, he isn't suspicious, which is good. Also, about that whole kissing thing:

I'm sorry I accused Dad of not passing good kissing genes down to me. It turns out I'm a fine kisser: Blaine is just shy. Of course, it's hard kissing when you have a completely stuffed up nose, but I suppose practice makes perfect. Anyway, thanks again for the cookies, and I'll call you later.

Love,

Kurt

PS Blaine loves your cookies too!

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Burt and Carole Hummel

Subject: Snickerdoodles

Kurt, you'll have to forgive me. I really don't mean to pry. But I got the distinct impression-and don't feel like you have to tell me if you don't want to-but I got the impression that you and this Blaine Wes Montgomery are having sex. Now, you are a big boy and of course you have to make your own decisions, but I think you should be aware of a few things: He won't buy the cow if he can get the milk for free. It's true. It's really true.

Get a ring on your finger before you… go down that path. You matter, bud, and I would hate to see you throwing yourself around like that if the guy isn't making his intentions known.

I know you're a man and you're probably rolling your eyes like your mother used to with all of my "responsible dad talk," but I just want you to know that the message is the same now that it was when you were in high school. Don't forget that.

Love,

Dad

* * *

To: Burt and Carole Hummel

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: Snickerdoodles

Oh my God, Dad, I am NOT having sex with him, all right? I am just talking about kissing! How do you go from kissing to sex? Well, all right, I guess it seems like a natural progression, but still. That thing about the cow is so stupid. Do I look like a cow to you?

Any way, know that the message has been received and I won't be throwing myself around soon – not even with the likes for this incredible man who happens to love Carole's cookies. I know how we Hummel men feel about baked goods, so I'm sure it's a peace to know that Blaine feels the same.

And if you and he ever meet, you can always talk about cookies.

Kurt

PS: If you ever meet, you will not be permitted to talk about me. Or bring up that you "have a gun." You do have a gun, a prop gun from when I was a toy soldier one year for Halloween. Your intimidation tactics are slightly hyperbolic and completely unnecessary.

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Burt and Carole Hummel

Subject: Snickerdoodles

I'm glad that the advice I shared with you all those years ago is still stuck in that noggin of yours.

Carole saw on the news that the transvestite killer has attacked another person, this time on the Upper East Side. She says she hopes you're locking your door at night. He especially seems fond of attractive men and women, so you really need to look over your shoulder when you go out at night. But don't forget to look out for those sinkholes.

Love,

Dad

PS And, Carole says, also beware of the falling air conditioners.

PPS: Glad to know that Blaine fits into the category of "the way to a man's heart is by cookies." I like him already.

* * *

To: Mercedes Jones

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: Help me

I made the mistake of telling my father Blaine and I made out, and now he's giving me the "you matter" speech I got in high school which was precious but totally unnecessary since I haven't lived at home in almost a decade. But he got me thinking: What is the rule?

You know, the sleeping-together rule. Like after how many dates are you allowed to sleep with someone? Without seeming like a slut, I mean? And does it count as a date if you're sick and he brings you ice cream? Vanilla ice cream, to be exact.

Kurt

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Mercedes Jones

Subject: Help me

What does the term "slut" mean to you? It is a very subjective word, if you ask me. For instance, I slept with Sam on our first date. Does that make me a slut?

Let's examine this: You like the guy. You want to jump his bones. But you are concerned that if you do so too early in the relationship, he will qualify you as a slut. Do you really want to be with someone who thinks in such pejorative terms? No, of course not.

So I think the answer to your question after how many dates are you allowed to sleep with someone is: There is no right answer. It's different for everyone.

Wish I could be more help.

Mercedes

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Sam Evans foodie

Subject: Sex

Dear Kurt,

Hi. I hope you don't mind, but Mercedes mentioned the little problem you've been having- you know, the one about how soon into a relationship do you Do the Deed. And I think I have an answer for you: If it feels good, do it.

Seriously. That's how I've always lived my life, and look how it's turned out? I'm the chef in my own restaurant, and I'm getting married to a totally hot lady who wears thongs under her business suits you all wear for work. Can't go wrong with that.

Sam

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Mercedes Jones

Subject: Please excuse

my boyfriend. I don't know if I've mentioned to you that he has a learning disorder.

Mercedes

* * *

To: Mercedes Jones

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: I don't mind

you're telling Sam about my sex life-or lack thereof-but you aren't telling people in the office, right? RIGHT?

KH

* * *

To: Peter Hargrave

From: Dolly Vargas

Subject: Kurt Hummel

But of course he should just do it, darling. What has he got to lose? It isn't as if he's getting any younger: quite soon gravity is going to begin effecting that lovely face of his and he'll look droopy and tired.

Speaking of which, Aaron's canceled on me for the weekend. What do you say? You think you can convince the little wifey that you have a business trip, and then spend the weekend with me in East Hampton? Stephen's house is a dream, and everyone would be very discreet. They're movie people, darling. It isn't as if any of them would have the slightest idea who you are. Let me know.

XXXOOO

Dolly

* * *

To: Artie Abrams

From: Jimmy Chu

Subject: Kurt Hummel

Yeah, but if he sleeps with him and it doesn't work out, he's going to have to see him every day, since he lives right next door. How awkward is that going to be? Especially if either of them start seeing someone else. It's a no win situation. Unless they get married, or something, and what's the chance of that happening?

Jim

* * *

To: Stella Markowitz

From: Angie So

Subject: Kurt Hummel

He's too old for him. How old is he, thirty-two? What is Kurt, twenty-seven? He's too young. A baby. He should find someone his own age.

Stella

* * *

To: Adrian De Monte

From: Les Kellogg

Subject: Kurt Hummel

Yes, but all the boys Kurt's age are starting up Internet companies and can get models any time they want, so what would they want with Kurt, who is cute, but no model? Either that, or they are professional skateboarders.

So I guess maybe it's okay that the guy is older.

Les

* * *

To: Mercedes Jones

From: Will Schuester

Subject: Kurt Hummel

What's a thirty-something guy doing still single, anyway? Has it occurred to anyone that he might very well have some serious issues? Shouldn't somebody say something to Kurt before he makes a fool of himself with this sleeping-with-him thing?

WS

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Mercedes Jones

Subject: Are People Around The Office Talking About You

Are you kidding? Don't flatter yourself. We have way better things to worry about than your love life.

Mercedes

* * *

To: Stacy Anderson

From: Blaine Anderson

Subject: Kenny Rogers chicken

You never seriously passed this off as something you made in your own kitchen. No way.

Blaine

* * *

To: Blaine Anderson

From: Genevieve Randolph Anderson

Subject: The Benefit

Just a reminder, my dear boy, of your promise to attend the benefit with me. And, of course, your sweet little check. I haven't heard from you in a few days. I do hope all is well.

Mim

PS Did you hear about your cousin Serena?

* * *

To: Genevieve Randolph Anderson

From: Blaine Anderson

Subject: Of course I didn't

forget. I'm escorting you, remember? I even got the old tux out of storage and dusted it off. See you there.

Blaine

PS Yes, I did hear about Serena. I blame her parents for naming her Serena in the first place. What did they expect?

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Will Schuester

Subject: What do you mean

you won't be back in the office until Monday? I think you're forgetting something, sweetie pie. The Lincoln Center Benefit to Raise Cancer Awareness. Only the biggest society event of the season. According to Dolly, everyone who is anyone is going to be there. I don't care if you're bleeding out of the eyeballs, Hummel. You're going.

I'm sending Larry to do photos. Be sure you get all those rich old biddies, the Astors and the Kennedys and the Andersons. You know how they love seeing themselves in the paper, even a tired old rag like us.

WS

PS Your stupid doll is back on your computer. What was that all about, anyway?

* * *

To: Mercedes Jones

From: Will Schuester

Subject: Hey

Quit yelling. If he's well enough to contemplate having sex with some guy, he's well enough to drag his sorry butt out of bed and do his damned job.

WS

PS What kind of ship do you think I'm running here? This is not the slacker express, Jones.

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: johnlives

Subject: Listen, I

knocked a little while ago, but you didn't answer, so I assume you're asleep. I didn't want to call and wake you up. The thing is, I have an assignment tonight, so I'm not going to be able to stop by until late. Will you be all right? I'll bring more ice cream. This time I'll make sure it has lots of chocolate-covered nuts for you pick out.

Blaine

PS Hurricane Jan moving at 135 miles per hour towards Jamaica. Eye should pass over it sometime tonight. Looks like it might be pretty bad. That should cheer you up.


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: Thanks SO much for everyone who is commenting, sharing, favoriting, loving, etc. this fic! Loves to all y'all!_

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Mercedes Jones

Subject: Last night

Hey, how did it go? I tried to talk Will out of making you go, but he was adamant. He said you were the only reporter he knew who could get the story without offending anybody. I guess Dolly wasn't exactly stellar at the whole charity-circuit thing. Well, that was undoubtedly because she was sleeping with all of the society wives husbands.

I hope you don't suffer a relapse or something.

Mercedes

* * *

To: Cooper Anderson

cc: Stacy Anderson

From: Blaine Anderson

Subject: Now what do I do?

Okay, last night, when I escorted Mim to the Lincoln Center benefit, who should come strolling up to us with his little notebook and pencil but... Kurt.

Yes, that's right. Kurt Hummel, Page Ten correspondent, The New York Journal, who, last time I'd seen him, had been in bed with a copy of Vogue and a temperature of a hundred. Next thing I know, he's standing in front of me in the most delectable suit known to mankind asking Mim if she feels her work raising cancer awareness will help bring about a cure someday. And then he notices me and breaks off and cries, "Blaine!"

And Mim-you know Mim-swivels her head around and takes in the hair and the eyes and the Midwestern accent and next thing you know, she's asking Kurt to sit down with us and does he want some champagne? Now, I think I can safely say that this was the first time in Kurt's journalistic career that one of his subjects invited him to sit down and have a drink at their table. And I know it's the first time Mim's ever invited a reporter for a private interview. And all I could do was sit there and kick Mim under the table every time she started to say anything remotely resembling my grandson, which of course she did about ten million times.

So the fact is, Kurt knows now that something is up. He has no idea what, of course. He thinks it's that Mim is in love with me. He joked I should go for it, since a rich old bat like Mim could pay off all my credit cards. Although he warned me that all of Genevieve Anderson's eight kids ended up in communes (Uncle Charles, Aunt Sara, and Aunt Elaine) or jail (Uncle Peter, Uncle Joe, and Dad). He neglected to mention the suicides (Aunt Claire and Uncle Frank). Further proof that Gramps was right to bribe the coroner.

What fine stock we come from, don't we, Cooper? Stacy, you should take the girls and run, run far away, now while you still can. So what do I do? Tell him? Or continue lying my head off? Could one of you please just shoot me?

Blaine

* * *

To: Blaine Anderson

From: Cooper Anderson

Subject: Tell him

Just tell him. Please. I'm begging you. I'm not sure how much more of this I can take.

Cooper

* * *

To: Blaine Anderson

From: Stacy Anderson

Subject: Don't tell him

until after you've had sex with him. I'm serious. Because if you're good enough in bed, he won't care. I know I have sex on the brain, and it's up to you, of course, but that's how I'd handle it.

Stacy

* * *

To: Stacy Anderson

From: Blaine Anderson

Subject: Oh, okay, thanks

Oh, I should just sleep with him. Oh, of course. Why didn't I think of that?

IS THERE SOMETHING WRONG WITH YOU? I mean, besides the fact that you're married to my brother. Don't you remember what it was like to be single? You couldn't just sleep with somebody. I mean, yeah, you could, but it never worked out. I WANT THIS TO WORK OUT. That's why it's important that BEFORE we sleep together, we establish a warm and loving friendship. Right? I mean, isn't that what Oprah's always saying?

Blaine

* * *

To: Blaine Anderson

From: Stacy Anderson

Subject: But don't you

think you've established a warm and loving relationship? I mean, you brought him ice cream and did his dishes, for God's sake. The guy owes you. He'll put out, don't worry.

S

* * *

To: Stacy Anderson

From: Blaine Anderson

Subject: Excuse me, but

Is that the spawn of Satan gestating within you, or my nephew? What is wrong with you? He'll put out, don't worry. Nobody puts out because you bring them ice cream.

If that were true, those guys who drive the Mr. Softee trucks... Well, you get my drift. No, I want to do this right. But the sad fact of the matter is that every man I've ever gone out with has always had one eye on my wallet-and we're talking mostly men Mim fixed me up with, the creme de la creme of New York society, who you would think had plenty of money in their own Schwab accounts-so getting them into my bed was never a difficulty. Usually it was trying to get them out of it that was the problem.

Kurt, however, is not exactly what you'd call the falling-into-bed type. In fact, he's pretty shy. I don't know what I'm going to do. I was serious about the shooting thing, you know. I really wouldn't mind a bullet between the eyes, if it was all over quickly, and Kurt didn't have to end up walking Paco again.

Blaine

* * *

To: Blaine Anderson

From: Stacy Anderson IH8BARNEY

Subject: Oh, for God's sake

Just go for it. Just knock on the door and when he opens it pull him out into the hallway and start kissing him deeply and intrusively. Then push him up against the wall and pull his shirt from the waistband of his pants and put your hand down his pants and

knoiueroihnmn,/...

* * *

To: Blaine Anderson

From: Cooper Anderson

Subject: You'll have to excuse

my wife. She is a quivering mass of hormones right now. In fact, I just had to put her to bed with a cold compress. I would appreciate it if you would refrain from discussing anything of a sexual nature with her until after the baby comes. Six to eight weeks after the baby has come, as a matter of fact. As I am sure she has explained to you, she is at her sexual peak.

And yet, as you undoubtedly know, her doctor has advised her that she is at a stage in her pregnancy when it might be dangerous for the baby for us to engage in-Well, you know.

So would you shut your pie-hole about the whole sex thing between you and this guy? And while we're on the subject, whatever happened to taking a guy to dinner? Huh? That always works in the movies. You took a guy out for a nice romantic dinner, maybe a carriage ride through Central Park, unless he was the type of guy who would think that was lame, and if you were lucky, he'd put out. Right?

So take him somewhere nice. Don't you know the guy at Belew's? Isn't that the nicest restaurant in town? Take him there. And this time, if the damned cat gets sick, let the stupid thing die. That's what I think, anyway.

Cooper

* * *

To: Blaine Anderson

From: Brittany and Ashley Anderson

Subject: HI UNCLE BLAINE

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF OUR NEW EMAIL ACCOUNT? DADDY GOT IT FOR US SO WE WOULD STOP USING HIS. WE HEARD MOMMY AND DADDY TALKING ABOUT YOU AND THE FANCY HAIRED MAN AGAIN. THEY SAID YOU AREN'T SURE HOW TO LET HIM KNOW YOU LIKE HIM. WELL, IN THE SECOND GRADE, WHEN YOU ARE A BOY WHO LIKES A GIRL, YOU GIVE HER YOUR BEST POKEMON CARD. OR YOU PULL HER HAIR. NOT HARD ENOUGH TO MAKE HER CRY, THOUGH. OR YOU CAN ASK TO HER ROLLERSKATE BACKWARDS WITH YOU, AND THEN HOLD HER HAND SO SHE DOESN'T FALL DOWN. HOPE THIS HELPS!

LOVE,

BRITTANY AND ASHLEY

* * *

To: Blaine Anderson

From: Genevieve Randolph Anderson

Subject: I am not even

going to ask what that was all about at the benefit. I can only assume that you, like all of your cousins, have completely lost your mind. I suppose that was the Mister Kurt Hummel of the Lima, Ohio Hummels. For the life of me, I can't imagine why you've been hiding him away like that. I thought him perfectly charming. I assume he has a cold and does not always pronounce his th's as d's. And yet you are obviously playing some sort of game with him.

My ankle, I think you should know, is black and blue from all the times you kicked it. You have always been completely hopeless where men are concerned, so do let me give you this piece of advice: whatever game you're playing, it isn't going to work, Blaine.

Men don't like games. Even, I am told, men from Lima, Ohio.

Mim

* * *

To: johnlives

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: The other night

Is it just all the decongestants I took before I went out, or was that totally weird? I had no idea you were going to be there. You must have written after I'd left. My horrible mean boss made me go. I didn't want to. I felt terrible. But he made me, so I put on a suit and I went, stuffy nose and fever and all. It wasn't too bad.

I mean, the shrimp was good. Not that I could really taste it, but whatever.

Anyway, I had no idea you go to that kind of stuff. Were you taking pictures? Where was your camera? I didn't see it. That Mrs. Anderson was pretty nice. How do you know her? Did you do her portrait, or something? It's funny how you hear stuff about people, and then you meet them, and they're exactly the opposite. Like I always heard Genevieve Randolph Anderson was this horrible ice bitch. But then she was so nice. You know, if she wasn't like a hundred years old, I'd say she has a crush on you, because the whole time we were talking, she just kept looking and looking at you.

It's good, you know, that with all her money, she does stuff for charity. Mrs. Anderson, I mean. I've covered stories about lots of people who don't. Actually, all of Mrs. Andersons' kids (she had EIGHT, did you know that?) are these huge slackers who live on communes or are in jail. I feel sorry for them. And for her, a little.

Anyway, I am back at work because they simply can't do without me around here, but I was wondering if you'd let me take you out to dinner one night soon as a sort of thank you for looking out for me when I was feeling so rotten? Let me know when you're free...Mrs. Anderson, I know, should get first dibs on your time, seeing as how if you married her, you could pay off all your credit cards right away, and not ever have to worry about maxing them out again. Just a suggestion.

KH

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: johnlives

Subject: Dinner

No, it wasn't just you. The other night was totally weird. Well, except for you, I mean.

You're never weird. I just meant the circumstances. I've known Genevieve Anderson for a long time. My whole life, actually. But I don't believe there's any possibility of anything romantic developing between the two of us, in spite of the fact that it might offer a solution to my credit card problems.

She really enjoyed meeting you, by the way. And the piece you wrote about the benefit was very touching. I imagine every charity in town must be calling, inviting you to come write about them next, you do it so eloquently.

As for dinner, I would be delighted. Only I wish you'd let me take you out. I still owe you, remember, for saving Aunt Helen? So how about tomorrow night? If you're feeling up to it, I mean. I'll make reservations-it'll be a surprise. But I guarantee we're not going to Fresche.

Blaine

* * *

To: johnlives

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: Dinner

All right, if you insist. But you really don't have to. You know, if you would just let me cook, then you could save your money and actually pay off your credit cards. It's a novel thought, I know, but it is what normal people do.

But I guess it's pretty clear neither of us are all that normal. I mean, normal people aren't really obsessed with hurricanes and sinkholes, are they? So I guess the whole normal thing is ruled out, as far as we're concerned.

Oh, well. Just promise me you won't spend a lot. I'm not really a champagne kind of guy. Beer or wine suit me just fine.

Okay, I do like champagne, but it's not a requirement or anything. I have expensive taste, but I like to keep it simple too.

Kurt

* * *

To: David J. Belew

From: Blaine Anderson

Subject: Dinner

Dear David,

Remember how after I got Patty to do that Dining Section expose on hard-to-get-in restaurants, and how yours was the only one that she declared worth the three month wait? And you said I had a table anytime I wanted?

Well, I want one. For two. And you've got to hold it under the name of Wes Montgomery, and when I show up, that's how your staff should greet me. Okay? Also, make sure you've got ice cream with chunks in it for dessert. Chocolate chunks are best.

That's all I can think of right now. I'll call later to confirm.

Blaine

* * *

To: Blaine Anderson

From: David J. Belew

Subject: Dinner

Blaine, I hate to disappoint you, but at Belew's, rated four stars by the illustrious newspaper for which you toil daily; three stars by the Michelin guide; top restaurant in New York City by Zagat's; and recipient of not one but two Beard awards, thanks to the culinary talents of yours truly, we do not serve ice cream with chunks in it.

No, not even chocolate chunks. I will, of course, see that a table is held for you, and even instruct my staff to call you Wes Montgomery. But I'm afraid I must draw the line at chunks.

Dave

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Mercedes Jones

Subject: You must be feeling better

Or is there some other reason why you are humming I Feel Pretty under your breath? Which, by the way, is only slightly annoying to those of us who have to work near you.

Mercedes

* * *

To: Mercedes Jones

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: My humming

How about this? I feel better AND I'm happy. I know. It seems hard to believe. But it's true. Want to know why I'm happy? Because I'm going out tonight. On a date. An actual date.

With a man. What man, you ask? Why, Wes Montgomery, if you must know. Where are we going? It's a surprise. But guess what? He's paying. And even though it's to say thank you for saving his aunt's life-though I must say I'm not sure she'd really appreciate my efforts, considering what her quality of life is at the moment-it's still a date.

And Mrs. Montgomery might get better. So yes, I guess you could say that overall,

I'm very happy. But if my humming bothers you, I'll stop, by all means.

KH

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Dolly Vargas

Subject: Did someone say date?

Darling, is it true? You and Wes, I mean? You're so calm about it, sweetie, that's why I ask. I mean, considering it's the first time a man has asked you out since...well, you know. Why, speak of the devil...there he is, sulking over by the copier as we speak. Poor, poor Aaron.

I would think you'd at least head over to Bumble and Bumble for a quick shampoo and a manicure. And you know, I know the best little place for waxing that is, if you think tonight is THE night. We always want to look our best in our Christian Diors, now, don't we? You know, I hear the Sphinx is becoming quite popular. Since I know you don't know what that is, I'll explain. It's when they wax not just your front bits, but the whole Oh, pooh. Peter's on the phone. More later, I promise.

XXXOOO

Dolly

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Mercedes Jones

Subject: Your date

Okay, I know it's been a long time (that little movie-and-a-slice thing you guys did doesn't count nor that night at Fresche when we all inspected him, or that other night you ended up spending at the animal hospital) so I'm going to make sure you haven't forgotten anything in your date survival kit. Now, check each off these items before you leave the apartment so you'll be sure not to forget them:

1. Chapstick.

2. Travel sized Aquaphor. (so you don't have dry hands)

3. A Metrocard. (in case you need to make a quick getaway)

4. Cash for cab fare. (in case you need to make a quick getaway and there are no subway stops nearby)

5. Passport. (in case he chloroforms you, puts you on a plane to Dubai, and sells you into white slavery, and you need to prove to the authorities after you escape that you are an American citizen)

6. Clean undies. (just in case you end up spending the night)

7. Condoms and lube. (ditto)

Hope this helps.

Mercedes

* * *

To: Mercedes Jones

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: The List

Thanks for that list of things I will supposedly need on my date, but you are forgetting one thing: WE LIVE NEXT DOOR TO EACH OTHER. And, also, where am I going to put extra underpants since I don't carry a bag? I swear, sometimes you think I carry a purse or something. I'm a man, Mercedes, and I can't very well bring my messenger bag on a date.

So if I need clean underwear, I'll just have to go across the hall. Now stop talking about it. Between you and Dolly, I don't know who's making me more nervous.

It's just dinner, for God's sake. Oh, God, I have to go, or I'm going to be late.

KH

* * *

To: Kurt Hummel

From: Dolly Vargas

Subject: Just one more thing-

Do be sure you use a condom, darling, because Wesie has been around, if you know what I mean. Well, think about it. All those models. There's no telling where they've been, bony little delights that they are. Ta for now.

XXXOOO

Dolly


End file.
